


The Forgotten Highlander

by MyrJuhl



Category: Fight Club (1999), Highlander: The Series, Les Misérables (2012), Vikings (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, Age Difference, Alcohol, Art, Asphyxiation, Awkwardness, Blood, Bodily Fluids, Comfort, Crimes & Criminals, Crossover, Cuddling & Snuggling, Death, Deviates From Canon, Domestic, Drama, Dreams & Nightmares, Falling In Love, Family, Feelings, Fighting, Hurt/Comfort, Indulgent Athelstan, Injury, Inquisitive Enjolras, Kissing, Language, Love, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Modern Era, Pain, Paranormal, Period Piece, Religion, Romance, Sad, Sci-Fi, Secrets, Slow Build, Spoilers, Teasing, Tension, Trauma, Violence, War, Weapons, antiquity, creaturefic, discomfort, soul mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2019-10-04 20:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17311025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrJuhl/pseuds/MyrJuhl
Summary: *** *** If you feel like watching Vikings, but haven't really gotten around doing it yet, this story might ruin it for you... *** ***. ~ɤ~ .When Floki killed Athelstan, no one questioned that the young Gail born Saxon was anything but dead when he was buried.Well, he wasn’t... His immortality had only just begun. A dormant Highlander who did his best to stay out of sight when other immortals fought their universal battle to become the Only One. Athelstan had reasoned for centuries that this goal was unfeasible since new immortals still rose from their deathbeds - oblivious to The Battle until it was mercilessly thrust at them.One morning Athelstan found a disturbingly human sized bag expelled from the sea on the shore of his beloved Lindisfarne Island. Even before he opened it, he could sense that there was another immortal inside the bag.. ~ɤ~ .





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fragments from the chosen fandoms are only used as means to lead the story forward. I understand the potential these fandoms have to offer the story, but this is just an experiment to indulge an alternative Blagden/Tveit craving. Enjoy.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** These events never happened. This fic is for entertainment purposes only, not profit. I, the author, make no claim through this work as to the fictitious characters/ actual lives/ preferences/ activities of the people mentioned herein.

. ~ɤ~ .

Standing in the cinema booth selling tickets and candy to support his measly studies, Enjolras listened with sparkling blue eyes to one of his friends speaking of a secret society where men fought men and it made them feel something, giving them a tremendous satisfaction of masculinity. However, he was warned not to tell anyone about it.

“Then why are you telling _me_?” Enjolras replied, frowning. 

“Just shut up and come...?”

Nodding, Enjolras would show up at the next gathering. Of course, he would. He wouldn’t miss a chance like this for anything. When he arrived, he was surprised by how many had showed up for the fights. He understood when the leader scolded everybody for slipping out the existence of the club since so many apparently had heard about it. The first rule of Fight Club was: _You do NOT talk about Fight Club._ That rule had been broken with relish, as it would seem the men were too proud of it that they couldn’t keep quiet. Enjolras was not going to reveal a single word about the club. That was his code of honour and he got it from just looking at the passion, Montparnasse exuded. Yes, that was their leader’s name: Montparnasse, and Enjolras believed he was the kind of man he would take a bullet for, no questions asked. He just yearned to belong and prove himself.

Montparnasse also was a downright bastard and, tonight, he let himself be beaten by the owner of the basement they were using. The man and his thugs suddenly appeared, and Montparnasse thrived in fighting and provoked him to rough him up. Montparnasse didn’t look much like he could win a fight at all with his wiry skinny physique, but that had fooled many. Suddenly, he lunged at the man and shook his blood all over his face, Enjolras went and grabbed a solid hold of his belt to prevent the situation from escalating. And that’s how the incident ended. The owner and his goons left in a shocked state of disgust by the mentality and physical activity going on. Well, to an outsider, it would be rather difficult to understand the raw attraction of this kind of male bonding.

“Well done. You’re an angel,” Montparnasse said and ran his wounded hand over his hair, matting his blond curls with his blood. To Enjolras, it felt like a christening. 

A personal bond developed from that episode, between Montparnasse and the young student. The nick name Angel stuck with Enjolras, and now everybody called him that. Real names were not allowed in the Fight Club.

Angel felt an indescribable loyalty toward Montparnasse, and reciprocated unconditionally every scrap of attention the leader would offer him. Oh, he knew Montparnasse had a woman, but the destructive relationship with the diminutive female left his leader confused. Only within the Fight Club, Montparnasse seemed relaxed and accomplished. Exciting ideas grew from this; ideas of change and freedom. 

Just like with the fights: you were set free.

By then, Angel had moved into Montparnasse’s shabby old house. There was room enough for everyone who joined as soldiers. Angel only wore black clothes, the dress code for the soldiers, setting a distinct contrast to his hair. At times, Angel felt that Montparnasse would look for him first thing when he got home. Angel sensed things, new ecstatic feelings that ignited his body, when that happened. He didn’t analyse what they meant sexually, because he was just happy to serve if there was anything he could do for Montparnasse. 

_Anything_.

Montparnasse was constantly testing them; trying to see if they had learned to follow the rules, and they always followed the orders their general gave them. They were soldiers now, involved in happenings to make the people in power of their nation pay attention to them. They represented the working class.

One night, they dressed up as waiters, and worked a conference ballroom. Their target was a local politician - a man who had suggested changes that in Montparnasse’s book would make the conditions of the workingman worse. He wanted to give the man a graphic scare. After kidnapping him to the men’s room, they threatened him, and told him they would cut off his balls if he didn’t change his policy,

or else... 

After their deed, they were all excited, adrenaline pumping their veins as they rushed away from the building. Montparnasse was right behind Angel and when he grabbed his arm, Angel turned. Montparnasse stood a few seconds looking indecisive, but then he ruffled his hair affectionately, grinning happily. Angel grinned back; his cock was hard and pleasure emanated from his beautiful face, as he basked in his general’s approval.

“We’re splitting, Enjolras,” Montparnasse said. “You take unit 2 up the ramp. I’ll see you soon enough when we get back.”

“Yes, sir,” Angel replied, surprised and so pleased that he called him by his real name. In spite of the no real name rule, on rare occasions, Montparnasse called Angel by his real name; as it were, the young student was unofficially second in command by now.

. ~ɤ~ .

Back home, fights were prompted and Montparnasse challenged Angel who was thrilled to see some action, a release for the feelings he had accumulated toward Montparnasse. Jabbing at Montparnasse sent ecstatic sensations through his body, as he enjoyed the feel of Montparnasse’s powerful punches in return. The excited shouts accompanied the two fighters, as they circled each other looking for an opportunity to get in a good punch. Bouncing on naked feet, Angel’s taut pecs and biceps stood in sharp relief as sweat made his skin glisten. His young beautiful face aroused, intent on winning over the leader, his idol.

Suddenly, something changed in Montparnasse’s eyes; glints of malice that surprised Angel and made him lower his guard. A fraction later, he paid for losing his concentration. In spite of Angel having both weight and a height advantage over his leader, a volley of hits struck him square in the face over and over. Pain exploded massively. Hits to his nose, ears, eyes, and lips; everywhere. When he fell to the ground, kicks and fists continued to rain all over his body, as Montparnasse straddled his body. He didn’t even try to fight back.

The spectators had long gone turned quiet in incomprehensible horror. _When someone didn’t fight back, the fight was over._ That was one of the rules. What they had just witnessed their leader do to Angel, everybody’s favourite, was nothing but systematically cutting down their defenceless comrade. Despite still lying on the ground, bruised and fractured, Angel received a last kick to the ribs when he whimpered. Then everything turned quiet as numbness was replaced by spasms when his body went into shock. 

Montparnasse went for the exit, leaving the stunned soldiers to deal with the aftermath.

“We need to get him to a hospital fast,” someone said.

Montparnasse stopped by the door and looked sideways toward the speaker. “No... just get rid of him... somewhere.”

“He... he’s dead, sir,” another soldier said, uncertainty plain in his voice.

“Well then dump him in the fucking river.” Montparnasse’s face never revealed any kind of emotion.

Picking up the limp body, it didn’t take the reluctant soldiers long to put Angel in a large black plastic bag for garden compost. Stealing a car, Angel’s body was soon transported to the River Thames to meet one of their connections who owned a boat. Shortly after, the boat was headed outwards a few nautical miles from London, where they dropped their deceased comrade into the black water.

. ~ɤ~ .

804 AD

Waking up under the ground after Floki had killed Athelstan had been a terrifying experience for the young monk. Luckily, the Vikings hadn’t burned his body. They hadn’t known how Christians traditionally buried their dead, and so he had been put in the ground with dirt covering him. After assessing where he could possibly be, Athelstan began the torturous panicked task of trying to dig his way out of a grave. It took him far too long, but only because the soil was still loose. Luckily, there was no casket. 

And also...

He overcame suffocation more times than he was able to count due to lack of air only to revive again; finding himself back in the same nightmare fighting for his life.

Once he was finally above ground again, he fell flat on the surface trying to make sense of what had happened. It was afternoon.

Coughing and crying he bent down in prayer for a sign, curling himself as small as possible. The elation he’d felt when Floki’s axe connected to his temple was gone. Now there was just the harsh reality that he had just had to dig himself out of a grave. There was nothing glorious about that.

But he was alive. That was pretty spectacular and scared him to numbness. It wasn’t natural.

Shaking, he lay there for a while until he felt better equipped to deal with what was going to happen next. Carefully, he looked around, but he was all alone. No sounds alerted him that he would have to protect himself. 

Eventually, he realised that there were tokens and gifts scattered around that had been placed neatly on top or inside of the grave. With a trembling mouth, Athelstan knew it must have been Ragnar’s doing. Athelstan recognised his own sword. He should bring it along. He had no one but himself to protect him now.

The other small tokens were the usual little gifts the Vikings believed someone needed on their way to Valhalla. The thought was lovely, but Athelstan didn't need them. He wasn’t on his way to Valhalla. 

“Oh...” he gasped. That’s what they would think. He couldn't let them know he had survived this ordeal. It must have shocked Ragnar out of his mind to find him in his room. Athelstan couldn't just leave the grave behind like this. They would come for him...

The thought sent Athelstan’s mind spiralling. Frantically, he began to cover up the fact that the grave now clearly didn’t contain anything but dirt that had sunken suspiciously. Instinctively, he knew trying to reach out to Ragnar and confront Floki would not be taken well. The Vikings would turn his unnatural presence against him and accuse him of being a bad omen, a ghost, and they would not help him but expel him. Maybe Ragnar wouldn’t, but Athelstan wasn’t going to drag him down with him. 

He missed his friend. 

Deeply.

And he was never going to see him again.

The growing natural instinct to flee the spot had to be controlled, and instead, Athelstan continued the hopeless task to try and cover up the mess. Then he abruptly stopped his futile endeavour and allowed the panic to wash over him in the hope it would eventually pass. By then, he would be able to think clearer.

Well, he was still alive. He’d continued to live in spite of how many times he’d died trying to get out of the grave.

So maybe he couldn't die. 

So far.

All right.

“Grave robbers...” Athelstan finally whispered. Grave robbers plagued grave yards in their quest to steal anything valuable from the dead. Perhaps the solution was that simple? His grave had been robbed. Not only of the items that the Vikings might have put there but his body as well. Athelstan wasn’t dressed in the monk’s cloak he’d chosen to wear after he found God again. In fact, he hadn’t been dressed at all when Floki killed him. But looking down, he found he was dressed in a fine robe for his burial. Something that looked like King Ecbert might have presented to Ragnar as a gift. Now it just made the monk look foreign. He would have to shed the fine outer layer soon, and just keep the simple shift and tunic to better blend in. It was a shame having to leave it, but it simply wouldn’t do him any favours being dressed like a wealthy Saxon.

Athelstan rose from his bent legs and, once he’d gathered the trinkets and orientated himself, he walked in the direction away from the settlement.

He was ravenous by now and ate anything edible that he came across. He was also unbelievably dirty and washed in a small lake far from Ragnar’s settlement. He had to be careful. In general, he was not welcome many places because even after all the years he’d been living with the Vikings, he hadn’t been able to shake the stigma of being the foreign priest. But eventually he would cross lands where they didn’t know him, and he was going to make sure it stayed that way.

Running his hands and fingers over his skull and face, there were no wounds or traumas to prove Floki had attacked hm. Checking his body over in general, Athelstan realised that he had no scars what so ever any more. Even the indentions in his palms from when he was crucified were gone. Stating that he was fit and well could almost convince Athelstan that the attack had never happened. Yet, Floki sent him to his grave and triggered whatever was happening to him.

Athelstan took a deep cleansing breath. The whole experience had to mean something profound. 

Of course. 

God himself had spared his life, and he had to use this extraordinary gift to do something good.

That was the rational optimistic Athelstan talking. 

At dusk, his conviction of what that purpose meant had diminished considerably. The fact was that he’d tried giving himself to God, literally wanting Floki to execute him in that very moment. Nevertheless, the fact he was still alive felt like a rejection. Like in reality, God didn’t find his sacrifice worthy. 

The night mares he’d somehow remembered came creeping, and no matter how much he prayed that first night, the memories from when he struggled to get out of the ground came over him. 

All of a sudden, he didn't feel so blessed. He’d already tried to be crucified, which was the most horrific experience of his entire life. Even watching his brothers on Lindisfarne succumb to the Vikings’ frothing massacre couldn’t compare to the feeling of being nailed to a cross. 

However dying repeatedly...

It was messing with his mind, his belief, but time would make the memory less haunting. It had to. He would deal with his trauma the best way he could later.

After he’d slept, Athelstan departed as soon as the sun rose. 

Leaving Kattegat, Athelstan settled with people wherever they were willing to help him. Dressed like a local helped him transit for many years, as long as he left when the people around him became suspicious of why he didn’t age with them. He became better at disguising his age in time and never told anyone how old he was. He didn't need the wrong people trying to calculate anything about his person. It was dangerous and he kept his sword by his side to protect himself.

. ~ɤ~ .


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of research went into this story. I hope you'll enjoy.

. ~ɤ~ .

Many centuries came and went. Eventually, Athelstan sailed back to England and rediscovered his beloved Lindisfarne. The community was smaller now than when Athelstan had lived there. The Church of St. Aidan had been rebuilt since Ragnar’s raid and was now called St. Mary. Monks came from Durham in a rotation of two years before they went back to the mainland. Athelstan managed to fit in with the monks there and lived peacefully drifting in and out of the old convent as a skilled but bland looking illustrator. 

Historically, Lindisfarne was upgraded to a fortress when war was upon England, but Athelstan simply stayed away from Lindisfarne during those times. He didn't need to accidentally die and have superstitious people find him. The fortress was dismantled by Richard II, leaving the monastery to the monks as it was before. This time, the buildings were given an extensive work, and Athelstan experienced that the monks integrated servants for the first time. This meant more people who would remember his face.

To avoid their recollection, he executed a pattern that every thirty years, he would leave Lindisfarne only to return twenty years later with a new name when nobody remembered him. His skills were always appreciated and so it was never an issue to make room for him. 

This routine was feasible until he discovered that there were others like him. It was a worrisome wake up call.

A French monk found his way to the convent in 1595. After the initial shock on both parts that they were sharing immortality, the brother enlightened Athelstan about the circumstances of his immortality and what he was really supposed to do with it. The monk didn’t challenge Athelstan. There were strict rules of refuge on holy ground. So instead, he secretly trained him in the ways of the immortals. Athelstan impressed him with the skills he’d been taught with the Vikings. Killing wasn’t new to Athelstan, but he didn’t answer any questions the monk had about his past. He couldn't trust anyone to know about his long past – not even another immortal. That was too dangerous. 

Athelstan abhorred the entire concept of winning The Prize and decided to stay out of it. It wasn’t for him. He wasn’t interested in being the Only One in the end. The Prize had to be a substitute for something else than the master plan of the universe the French monk had lured him with. It was blasphemy to assume a human being would end up more powerful than God himself, and Athelstan had no interest in the matter. He just wanted to be left in peace and do the work he’d been doing all his life: Copying and illustrating rare books.

In favour of drifting all over Europe, Athelstan left Lindisfarne in the late 1600's. He knew it was a chance to take, but after nearly a millennia of doing the same, he needed the change of scenery. Naturally, he discovered how fast the world was evolving politically, and borders changed drastically. More importantly; there were no more or less immortals now than there had been before he knew about their race. Staying clear of other immortals wasn't always successful, but luckily he survived every skirmish and only became stronger.

Eventually, modern technology caught up on him. Monks copying books by hand became a trade of the past. The original monastery at Lindisfarne were mere ruins by the 18th century with the present Parish Church of Saint Mary the Virgin built on top of the ruins, still beautifully intact and inhabited by the monks who hadn't moved back to Durham.

In the 20th century, the British government claimed Lindisfarne grounds as a museum. In that century, Athelstan found that time was somehow shorter. It was also the century where he began making a lot of money and invest it in a business as to not make his bank account interesting by whatever his identity was at present. 

He had to change identity more often and it wasn’t easy any more. Citizens were accounted for. Hiding in plain sight, he got even smarter. He went to various schools over and over and learned everything he could possibly desire not having to bother passing any exams. However, he did get a few degrees that let him work in advertisement.

For a long while the telegraph had been overrun by the telephone, but now there were radio and television. Later on the internet was invented, and Athelstan finally accepted that his skill as a professional illustrator was hopelessly outdated. He decided to learn everything about how computers and the internet worked, and he got jobs everywhere in the 1990’s where business screamed for competent computer engineers. Having flirted with the new technology since the 1960’s, Athelstan happened to be just that competent and he made a lot of money for a few decades.

Occasionally, he went back to Lindisfarne as a tourist, following the state of how it was maintained. The old place still pulled at his heart strings. He was born in a small village in Roxburghshire, a place that was already extinct in medieval times. His people sent him away to Lindisfarne when he was just a small lad, and Athelstan couldn’t recall what his mother’s face looked like any longer. However, his upbringing amongst the monks of Lindisfarne was startling clear to him.

The last time he came there was January 2nd 2000. It seemed appropriate to celebrate the beginning of the new millennium that way. But it didn’t bring him the joy it used to. 

He realised that he wanted Lindisfarne back. Literally the entire Holy Island.

The people living in the community close to the church, whether it was the small cottages for rent, other modern housing, public facilities, and shops that had always been part of Lindisfarne’s parish, had shown a pattern of increased migration during the last decade. Perhaps tourism had failed, or maybe there was a lack of child births to keep up the population, Athelstan wasn’t really sure what the cause was. Moreover, from the erosion of the buildings so close to sea, it was clear that the majority of the young community wasn’t planning on staying but left the island to settle elsewhere. Lindisfarne village was in a sorry state, with a majority of the population above fifty-five, and the government didn’t spend money mending anything. 

However, the church and castle were still in excellent condition.

In order to prove him the rights to the Holy Island, Athelstan blessed his writing talent and set to work on fabricating intricate documents. He worked on them for nearly two years; digging out every detail he could find of whom had owned the island throughout time. He made sure to match ownership papers that somehow underlay additional vague ownerships but weren’t entirely trustworthy, and yet still certified they would give him the benefit of doubt. He knew experts would scrutinise his claim. To appease them, he planted documents on fake history web sites adding snippets of interesting information only he knew, because he had lived on Lindisfarne when those events happened. Because of his hacker skills, he was able to back date some of those entries on his fake web pages. If there were too many it would cause suspicion, so he left just enough to not cause a front page riot.

Athelstan had stacks of paper of various ages that a carbon 14 test could testify to be from around 1550's at the time of the new church’s completion. Attention to detail was important, because old paper had more fibres to the weave than modern paper making the ink bleed differently. With diluted ink, he’d procured from other old scraps of writings he’d made during time, he ensured that everything matched in age. On the old sheets of papers, he forged the fake documents of how the ownership of Lindisfarne went hand in hand with his ancestry, until the British government claimed it. But since they never looked for the rightful owners – those Athelstan had hinted at on the fake web pages - the claim the government thought rightfully theirs would turn out to be wrong. That was Athelstan's case and, in time, he was able to produce the papers from various periods in history and up to around the timeline of when the government took possession of the island.

From the government's point of view, Lindisfarne's value as a museum was historical. A National Treasure. They were not wrong in their assessment. In all the centuries Athelstan lived there, the original church from the 700th century also used to be a beacon of faith for Catholics from all over Europe. Many pilgrims came to visit due to Saint Cuthbert, a bishop and healer in his time. The remains of him were buried there a millennia prior to the buildings becoming a fortress. The castle from 1550 held treasures and original furniture which were priceless, but that didn’t mean anything if Athelstan owned the island. The caste’s prime function was as a museum and had been restored recently. Athelstan intended to repay the government their expenses should they grant him the island. 

Nevertheless, since the rest of the premises were now sorely neglected and had long since lost their holy value in favour of tourism, with the fake evidence presented Athelstan’s claim surprisingly came through. 

The government’s decision to return the island to its ‘rightful owner’ did make the front page and other waves of outrage for a while. Though, once the protesters realised it made no difference, and that the island was not going to be used for something unaccounted for, they stopped harassing him. He didn’t touch the castle’s interior other than stash accumulated belongings he didn’t need at present, and made sure to lock it up from unexpected intruders. 

A minor restoration within the laws of preservation regarding the church began immediately to make it habitable. This was going to cost Athelstan several million pounds, but he had enough money for as long as it would take to make it perfect.

The next challenge for him was the people living and working in Lindisfarne’s parish. He didn't want more people living in the village. The existing population would eventually question his age but could also be in potential danger, if other immortals chose to track down Athelstan. Occasionally, people still approached him to try and lease one of the buildings in the village, but he always denied their request. Those who still lived in the community, had been given a generous ten year notice to find somewhere else to live. 

When that time came and the last removal van had left, all that was left were the vacant buildings, the asphalted roads leading nowhere, and small white dots scattered on the land as far as his eye could see. The animals had always been there and helped preventing the vegetation from growing out of control. They came and went in between the tide from the National Nature Reserve south of the Holy Island and the island itself.

. ~ɤ~ .

The fact that The Gathering hadn’t taken place yet wasn’t lost on Athelstan. After all, he’d known about it for five hundred years. The Game had existed for thousands of years. For each fight he hadn’t been able to avoid, there was always another somewhere else. He’d concluded at some point that there would never be an end to immortals. New ones were born regularly only to be discovered when they died. So The Gathering was never going to happen because logically, there would never be only two people left in the end to fight for The Prize.

The last time he took someone’s head was almost ten years ago, and that had been a disturbed novice. Athelstan’s belief to continue staying out of The Game was strengthened by that experience, and he kept his trusted Viking sword by his side. Anything else would be stupid. As long as Athelstan lived, someone else would still be out there. He didn’t know how many. The possibility that there really only was one other left often crossed his mind. He didn’t like that thought. Considering how few immortals he’d had to kill, only indicated that someone out there had killed so many that just one glance at Athelstan would probably off the old monk.

“For god’s sake, think of something else. Aren’t we just a little bit of a drama queen today?” Athelstan scolded himself. From time to time, he forgot that he believed in God and not the ungodly Game, when the fear of the unknown final battle showed its ugly head.

Getting out of his office chair, Athelstan stepped out of the church. The sky was a bit overcast but looked promising for a beautiful day.

Today was May 22nd 2025. He didn't know if that was his exact birthday, but he was born sometime in May... possibly 779 AD, but it was a little blurry by now. For some reason he’d chosen the 22nd. One had to have an exact date of birth today, or else society would look sternly at you and ask for documentation. Well. Athelstan always had the right birth certificate. Every time he had to change identity, he was always conveniently born somewhere where it hadn’t been possible to register his birth. So far it worked, and if it gave him any trouble, he simply hacked his way to an identity and deleted the fake one he didn’t need any more. His disappearance from society was rarely noticed by the authorities.

He should be ashamed by these crimes, but he was sure God forgave him. That he was born immortal wasn’t Athelstan’s fault.

Living on Lindisfarne wasn’t just because he wanted it back. Once more, it was a stronghold in its own right, and Athelstan needed it selfishly for his own protection. He had included this in his calculations when he made his plans. If he was attacked, at least he would have a chance at seeing his enemy from afar. Also, Lindisfarne was still holy ground where two immortals were not allowed to fight each other. He felt almost 90% safe by the rule that rule alone.

Turning, Athelstan looked back at the church behind him. After a busy century making as much money as he could, getting accustomed by how fast the modern world was moving, he knew he was content with a simple life. Oh, he had antique possessions of his own decorating his home or stored away. Memories from a 1,200 year long life to remind him he was still human when he felt a little lost.

In the open living space of the nave, Athelstan had installed full kitchen facilities. The inside of the pulpit was now his rather bizarre office. He didn’t have a phone any longer. The people he once knew were all dead anyway. If someone wanted his attention, they’d have to send him an email or use the intercom connected to the coast guard centre, which he was obliged to have installed because Lindisfarne was occasionally plagued by smugglers or homeless people.

The only human connection he had was once a month, when a truck arrived with what little mail still fell his way along with pre-ordered provision. Money was never exchanged; they were withdrawn from an account. The crates were left in front of the old vicarage building and Athelstan walked down with an old wheelbarrow and pushed his purchases home himself. He really didn't want to be remembered by anyone from Durham. 

Athelstan’s eyes followed Chare Ends road to the bend where it continued into Lindisfarne Causeway along the island’s western tongue of land that eventually lead to the mainland. He’d had to build a roadblock on that bend to prevent cars from trespassing into the village. Some ignored his signs along the road advising them to turn around. Still they approached the church and prior ruins, oblivious they were on private property. Usually that kind of tourists hadn’t even bothered to check information about the tidal warnings either, and would usually be the ones getting stuck when it happened upon them. If there was still time, he always sent them back to Durham immediately to prevent that. 

Suddenly, he caught sight of something unusual the tide must have brought in by the edge of the water further down the shore. Curiously, he went down there and stepped closer to have a look. As soon as he was well within reach, a sensation hit him that he hadn’t felt for a long time. The feeling was uncanny and he gasped in disbelief. The feeling was very faint, but it was there: Another immortal. Quickly, he raced back to the church and found his sword on the hanger on the wall. 

Returning to the spot on the beach, Athelstan carefully neared what looked like a large black sack. A few torn holes were visible here and there, but as such, the sturdy black plastic bag was intact. Cautiously, Athelstan lifted his sword and declared, “I’m Athelstan of Lindisfarne.”

There came no response, and Athelstan tried to figure out where the head was, but he was reluctant and doubted a great warrior would show up this way. He had to know who his opponent was and fight that person the right way. 

Holy ground or not.

The sun burst through the clouds, and the contents of the bag became more confined. Whoever was inside still lay perfectly motionless, but when a sudden twitch was detected, Athelstan knelt and cut the cord that kept the top gathered. Soggy blond hair appeared along with a desperate gasp of air, then a series of coughs started, and the person threw up profusely. The water in the bag already stunk of vomit and urine. 

“Don’t tell me _this_ is what I’ve been waiting for?” Athelstan mumbled sarcastically, chancing a look upwards to the sky. 

At the moment, he wasn’t sure whom to address for clarification but still decided that it would be safe to assist. Removing the rest of the plastic bag, the person turned out to be a shivering young man who tried to recover from drowning. 

Well, Athelstan could relate to that and decided to cut him some slack. “Horrible death...” he acknowledged, and manoeuvred the stranger's body into a recovery position. The young man was able to vomit water a few more times but otherwise lay still. 

More light emerged and Athelstan finally realised the source of at least one of the man’s terminations: He had either been crushed against the cliffs during the high tide or beaten to death prior to being put in the bag. Athelstan could vividly imagine the following deaths of repeatedly drowning and reviving, which meant he hadn’t started to heal yet; which was why his face was a swollen gore of fractures and wounds. This was the same case with his body; sickened, Athelstan detected several fractures and only a minor part of his torso and arms had escaped some kind of bruising. The man wore black trousers but Athelstan would chance the probability that the bruises continued beneath the fabric. 

Though slight of built, Athelstan was stronger than he looked. Still the man was too heavy to try and drag across the terrain. Athelstan would also have to be very careful. The stranger's skin was tender and distressed from being in the water for too long. Pulling at it would be adding complicated injuries to the amount he was already suffering. Athelstan would prefer to avoid that. Letting him lie for now, Athelstan went to fetch a sheet from his storage closet. When he returned, he struggled to get his unfortunate guest to lie on top of it. Once that was accomplished, he managed to transport him all the way back to the church.

Once inside, Athelstan continued pulling the sheet, till he reached the bath room. Finding a pair of scissors, he cut off the soiled wet garments to assess the full damages. As he feared, the bruises covered the young man’s entire body.

Athelstan realised that he would have to support his guest during the shower so, for practical purposes, he quickly got out of his own clothes and turned on the faucet to make sure the temperature wasn't too hot.

"I promise, it's just to help you," he said, as he somehow managed to move the man into the shower area and positioned the both of them on the tiled floor under the hot stream. Soft groans emanated from the man, as heat slowly crept back into his weak limbs. Athelstan held him in place against his chest, and after the bath, Athelstan was careful to only dab water droplets off with a towel. The blond could get a proper shower when his skin had recuperated. 

Athelstan moved him back into the nave. In the far back, on the levelled platform that used to be the altar, he’d put his bed up against the magnificent Roman stained glass windows. The sun shone bright through them already, illuminating the convexity stone structure of the ceiling in various colours. The altar was now a part of the kitchen island and functioned as the bar in front of the kitchen counter. Wine had been served from the altar for centuries. Now it was surrounded by bar stools. Poetic and decorative.

The immortal murmured as his body slowly slid across the stone floor. Once they reached the levelled stairs, Athelstan braced himself for the next task: to get the man up the few the stairs to the bed. The motion caused his guest to gain consciousness for the few seconds Athelstan needed his help to get him onto the bed. 

Once he lay down on his back, the man collapsed into unconsciousness again; naked as the day he was born, with his injuries and bruises a stark contrast to the white sheets. 

The monk was in no hurry to cover his nakedness and instead went to fetch a camera to document his charge’s condition. He took a handful of pictures from various angles. Chances were that this was his first death, and experience had taught Athelstan how confused and shocked these new immortals became, when they realised what they had become. Often, they couldn't comprehend those facts and some even went crazy. There was only one thing to do in those cases, and that was to give them peace by taking their head. There was no way of knowing how this one would react. As long as he didn't know anything, he was not a threat to Athelstan.

Still better safe than sorry, and Athelstan keep his sword within reach until the immortal understood his upgraded status.

Dragging forth a stool next to the man, Athelstan then pulled the duvet over his guest’s middle before he spent some time watching him sleep. The immortal’s body was finally able to regenerate and heal. Athelstan took a couple more pictures before going to light the fireplace and tend to his daily routines. His guest would need a few hours for his body to fully recover, but he would check on him regularly. 

Standing in the herbal garden, Athelstan poured fresh water in the birdbaths. The many bird species visiting couldn’t resist the tempting menu on his many bird tables. They feared him not when he came outside to sit on his bench to read or tidy the area around the prior. They’d still be around on the ground or in the trees minding their own business as he minded his. 

Going back inside, he found the man’s ruined clothes. Athelstan removed a thin wallet from the back pocket of his trousers and searched it. There wasn’t much ID to be found, but there was a tattered plastic membership card for a theatre in London. “Enjolras...” A French name. Like the monk he’d known back in the day, but the friar had looked nothing like this Enjolras. 

Interesting.

The card also revealed Enjolras’ age: He was born in 2005. Twenty years old. If the card was genuine and not faked, then this was his first death; the one that turned him immortal. Still, Athelstan couldn’t be sure and was watchful.

The hours went by and later, he began cooking a simple meal for the two of them. When it was done, Athelstan brought it to him. Placing the plate on a bed tray, he went to sit next to it at the edge of the bed. Reaching over by impulse, he grabbed Enjolras’ hand. The young immortal was lying on his side, so Athelstan moved closer. Regarding his hair, the monk reached out and indulged himself to touch him. He hadn't felt like touching another person in a long time. As he let his fingers slip through wavy strands, the monk wondered what caused these protective emotions inside him to re-awake. He should have cut his head off and be done with it. Nevertheless, he strongly felt this particular man deserved a chance at life. All he had experienced so far being an immortal was dying while he couldn’t defend himself. The pain of broken bones bent in a plastic bag and not able to heal...

A delicate shudder ran through the blond’s body. Athelstan became alert and Enjolras turned his head toward the source of contact. His facial structure had changed dramatically during the day, and Athelstan had captured the changes with his camera. Obviously, the fractured cheekbones and jaw were back in place and the swelling was minor. There were still faint bruises all over his skin, but they would be gone shortly, now the worst damage was healed. 

Exhausted, Enjolras responded to the comforting fingers touching his hair. Soon enough, he showed the signs of waking up from his heavy sleep and his eyes opened.

Brilliant blue.

"Hhhhuh!" he gasped in shock when he realised Athelstan was in the room.

Slowly, the monk slipped off the bed and stepped away to stand at a distance. "You have nothing to fear," he said immediately.

Looking around with wild eyes, Enjolras didn’t respond but it was clear he was ready to bolt if Athelstan so much as blinked.

“You truly have nothing to fear,” Athelstan repeated. “I’m just silly little old me,” he tried for a joke, and Enjolras’ eyes stayed on him. “I...” he pointed in a general direction, “I rescued you from the sea,” he said, and cocked his head. “You do speak English, right?”

“Y-yes,” Enjolras finally responded. “Is this a dream?”

Athelstan shook his head slowly and pulled off the elastic band on his wrist to tie his hair in a loose bun. Enjolras’ eyes followed his motions. “Not a dream, I’m afraid. The good news is that you’re alive.”

“I remember dreaming I drowned...”

“Must have been a terrible dream,” Athelstan humoured him; waiting patiently for his memory to re-establish what had happened prior to the drowning experience. The second that happened, Enjolras bent over in a silent scream. Carefully, Athelstan came back and sat on the edge of the bed frame, offering his support if the young immortal needed it.

“Oh, Jesus,” Enjolras choked out in emotional pain; tears sprung forward. His teeth gritted in an attempt to try and handle the pain and memories of what had happened. Then like electrocuted, he jerked back and looked down at his torso. “I was... I was... uhh...”

“Beaten?” Athelstan suggested.

Enjolras looked at him almost astonished. “How did you know? God, I must look like crap... don't I?” Then something else dawned on him. “I’m grateful you’ve given me painkillers. I don’t... I don’t seem to really hurt anymore,” he said looking lost, as if there were too many impressions to process at once.

“Sure. Anytime,” Athelstan lied. He hadn’t given Enjolras anything. Pain subsided along with the healing. 

Disorientation set in and Enjolras put his hands on his naked torso. Then he looked up at Athelstan as if he had stolen something from him. “But... where did it go? How long was I here?” 

“Easy, all right?” Athelstan said calmly. So far, Enjolras reacted normally considering how violent all of his deaths had been. “Listen, you’ve been through some heavy trauma but you’re safe here. Do you understand?” he asked.

Enjolras looked at him, “But I...” His confusion was heart breaking to Athelstan and he couldn't stop crying. He didn't seem to realise it; it was his body running on adrenaline now.

“What is your name?” Athelstan asked just to be polite. “Mine is Athelstan of Lindisfarne. You’re on Lindisfarne Island in Northumberland. Do you know where it is?”

“Y-yes,” Enjolras said. “I guess I’ve heard about it. I’m Enjolras. I’m from London.”

“London? So you’ve travelled by sea to here from London?”

“In the bag, yes...”

“That is a long way from home...” Athelstan said. “Do you remember when you were beaten?”

“The 19th at night.”

“Today is the 22nd of May.”

“Two and a half days ago,” they said in unison.

“I’m probably just thrown right now, but I could swear I drowned... or was I imagining it?” Enjolras asked, his eyes resting unwavering on Athelstan’s, demanding answers.

Shifting on his feet a few times, Athelstan took a few steps closer towards him and said vaguely, “It’s hard to say, I suppose. But then, you were severely hurt. It’s reasonable not to fully comprehend what is happening when you’re locked inside a bag.”

“I had no air. How come I’m not dead?” he challenged Athelstan. “I was inside that thing for that long! It’s not normal to survive that!”

The monk looked away. Hopefully, it would seem logical that he, a complete stranger, didn’t have the answers to Enjolras’ predicament.

“How did you find me?” Enjolras finally asked when Athelstan didn’t say anything else.

“You were cast upon the shore. Just outside. I found you and brought you here. You were a mess.”

“But I don’t look like a mess,” Enjolras said looking at his body again. Then he pushed the covers down and gasped surprised. “I’m naked... can you explain why am I naked?” he asked and looked accusingly at Athelstan who distanced himself again. 

“I haven’t touched you other than helping you to a heat up in the shower. I swear I haven’t done you any harm.”

“I didn't ask if you had done me any harm,” Enjolras said, but his eyes were still accusing him of something.

“I swear to God Almighty that I haven’t hurt you, Enjolras. This is a church. You’re on safe ground. I... I swear it.” Athelstan lifted his hands and looked beseechingly at Enjolras, hoping to convey that he had no reason to hurt him, at least without a proper pretext.

“Why am I still naked?” Enjolras asked again, passive aggressively.

Athelstan counted to ten before he answered, “Your clothes were ruined by bodily fluids. Furthermore, you were bruised so badly I had to cut them to get them off.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes as he thought about it. “All right. When did you find me, you said?” 

“I didn’t... but I... found you this morning,” Athelstan said, knowing he had crossed the line, and questions about immortality would be asked within a few moments. Enjolras seemed obnoxiously bright in the head, inquisitive even, so he would challenge Athelstan to know everything anyway. With that thought in mind, Athelstan decided he was ready to know the truth.

“What is the missing link, Athelstan?” Enjolras asked, surprisingly collected all of a sudden compared to a few moments ago when he was still in tears. “You’re hiding something. I don’t believe it was a dream. It felt too real and I remember too much now that I’m getting better.”

“You’re remembering because your brain has recuperated from the shock.”

“So... I did drown more than once? You know just as well as I that it is not possible. How come I get the feeling you know about these things?”

“Because I do,” Athelstan answered. 

“All right,” Enjolras said. “Could you lend me some clothes before we get into this?”

Rational little bugger. Athelstan couldn’t help but admire that just for a moment, before he sensed that Enjolras was perhaps a little too headstrong in his pursuit for the truth behind what had happened to him.

Athelstan went to a closet to the left of the bed and found some jogging bottoms, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and underwear for him. “They’re probably too short, but try these on,” he said as Enjolras took them.

Then the monk sat back down on the stool and folded his hands on top of his thighs.

“Are you gonna watch?” Enjolras asked waspishly.

“Yes,” Athelstan said, “I’ve seen everything already. And there is something I need to show you when you’re dressed.”

With a huff, the young immortal dressed and followed Athelstan to the pulpit.

“Wow. This is practically a mini NASA,” Enjolras said, looking duly impressed by the equipment Athelstan had installed there. He darted a quick look around the room, and clearly liked what he saw. “Cool digs, mate.”

“Thanks. Well, this is considered an island and even though we’re connected to the mainland in between the tides, I do have a few coastal obligations.”

“Like what?”

“Like um... wishing the coastguards a happy New Year annually or changing the bulb in the lighthouse.”

“Oh. Big responsibility,” Enjolras joked pointing at the game Athelstan had currently going on one of the monitors. The smile that came and went on his handsome face made Athelstan take a moment. He had forgotten what it felt like to have a real conversation.

Right now, Enjolras stood behind him with one hand resting on the edge of the desk. He’d laid his other on the back of the chair’s headrest. “What are we looking at?” he asked Athelstan, their attention now on the other monitor where a file on the desktop was marked to be opened.

“You,” Athelstan responded clicking the file, and instantly the pictures he’d taken earlier rolled across the screen in a slide show.

Enjolras didn't say anything, but Athelstan heard acutely by the crinkling leather behind him that the young man had started to shake.

“This is me?” he asked in a small hoarse voice.

“Yes. This morning when I found you.”

“But I... don’t understand?” Enjolras straightened his back.

“Of course not. How could you possibly understand why you healed in a day?”

“I can’t even recognise my face!” he said shakily as his voice broke for the second time.

“Hey, hey...” Athelstan said getting up. Taking him into his arms seemed the right thing to do, as Enjolras processed the information thus far. After a while he put his hands on Enjolras’ face and asked. “Want a cuppa?”

“Yeah. That would be nice,” Enjolras said and sniffled loudly. “...and a tissue,” he added as he turned to orientate himself of where Athelstan was going. Then he left the pulpit and followed Athelstan to the kitchen island.

“This is an awesome place you’ve got,” he said after he’d blown his nose. “How do you even get your hands on a church?”

“I wouldn’t know. In my case, I inherited it,” Athelstan lied smoothly as he smiled. “Rebuilding still cost me a fortune, but that’s all right. I get to live here on my own.”

“I’ve heard of Lindisfarne, but is it the same I wonder? Lindisfarne is a... well ruins.”

“Same place. Only one of them.”

“Doesn’t look like ruins...” 

“No. Not this building. But outside there are old ancient ruins. You probably recall those.”

“Why do you live here? Are you an attendant for the museum or something?”

“No, not an attendant. As I said, I own the island. It’s been in my family’s possession for generations. I literally live here in the church. I had the inside modernised a few years back, and... yeah. I live here.” Athelstan shrugged and smiled happily.

“Only rich people own islands. Are you rich?” Enjolras asked.

There was a tone in his voice that told Athelstan that Enjolras didn't like rich people. Well, Athelstan had been working all his life and now he enjoyed that he didn't have to. “I’m not a rich person,” he said to appease the young hot-headed immortal.

Enjolras cupped his mug with both hands and blew air across the steaming surface. He looked sharply at Athelstan and asked, “Speak.” His eyes were focused and he looked driven to hear what Athelstan had to say.

Amused, Athelstan nodded. “I have to say that you being here is refreshing, but all right. I’m not sure if we’ve been through the worst yet, so trust me that more of this is to come.”

“Let me be the judge of that. I just want to know.”

“Fine. I just have to get something. You’ll understand why after I’ve told you everything.”

Enjolras shrugged but his eyes grew large when he saw Athelstan come back with a sword.

“What are you...”

“Calm down. Like I said, it’s all part of the story.”

Doing as he was told, Enjolras reluctantly sat back down on the bar stool; clearly less relaxed now, which Athelstan couldn’t really blame him.

“I cannot die.”

Enjolras looked like he wanted to laugh but he also looked like he had to remember what had happened to himself in that ocean. “Okay...” he just said, hesitantly.

“You cannot die,” was the next thing Athelstan said. “Repeat that, and tell me what you think, please.”

Enjolras took his time to take a small sip of tea and swallow. Athelstan could see the cogs in his mind working to understand the answer. “If I can’t die and you can’t die... then we’re... vampires?” was his first reluctant guess to the riddle.

“Thank god no,” Athelstan said. “Nothing like that. But we simply cannot die. If we do, we revive. Just like what you went through in the bag. Of course, in your case, it wasn’t ideal, but we can’t always choose the circumstances.”

“We can’t die. At all? Like we live for eternity?” Enjolras stared at him. “For fucking ever?”

“It’s a long time. So... we make the best of it.”

“Athelstan...” Enjolras looked shaken. “Forever...?”

“Yeah... But there is a catch.” Athelstan nodded to the sword on the floor by his chair. “If your head’s decapitated. That’s it. You die.”

“Who would do that?” Enjolras whispered. 

“Another immortal. Like me.”

Before Enjolras’ eyes could bulge further in apprehension, Athelstan continued, “Or someone like you. You could decapitate... me. Or someone else.”

“Jesus... this is serious, Athelstan. There is a point to this I’m not going to like, isn’t there?”

“There is unfortunately. I did not rescue you just to kill you, all right? Understand that, Enjolras. I did not. I’m an old monk and taking lives is not the kind of person I am. But there are others like us, who wouldn’t think twice about taking our lives. I assume there are still others like us outside of Lindisfarne, but I’m not interested in finding out. Which is why I live here on holy ground. It’s sacred.”

“Is it like that movie a few years back? Hunting Game?”

“No. Well yes... but in this scenario nobody makes you immortal. You’re born that way, and the only way to discover that you are immortal... is to die.”

“And I did...” Enjolras’ eyes were unfocused, as his mind for a few moments remembered what had happened to him.

“Are you all right?” Athelstan asked.

“No. I’m not, but I’ll... Can I stay here? Just for a few days? Until I figure out what to do?”

“You can stay for as long as you want. I’m not going anywhere and neither are you.”

“Excuse me?” Enjolras said with a frown and stood up. “Thanks for the save, mate, but you can’t keep me here. If we’re connected to the mainland, I can just walk out of here right now.”

“We’re connected during ebb tide, yes, so of course you’re free to leave. But I’d rather you stay here. There are so many things you need to learn if you happen upon another immortal who just wants you out of the way.”

Clearly also visualising that scenario in his inner eye, Enjolras’ unease seemed to grow. “Point taken,” he admitted. “I suppose I do want to stick around.” Gradually, he sat down on the bar stool and grabbed his mug.

“Ready for more?” Athelstan asked.

“No, but go ahead,” Enjolras said. 

Athelstan had to remember that Enjolras was only twenty years old. Not much life experience to draw from, and still he took everything with admirable stoicism. “You're probably wondering what the objective is of this?”

“There is an objective?” Enjolras seemed genuinely surprised. “So it is a game?”

“Oh...” Athelstan said, again caught off guard by how quick-witted Enjolras was able to get to the point. “There is. Yeah. When I first heard of it I was dismayed. You see, the final goal is to be the last one standing.”

Enjolras stared at him for a minute, letting the implications sink in. “Until there are no humans left?”

“No, immortals. Mortals are not involved in the Game.”

“So... if there were just the two of us left. One of us would have to let the other... you know...”

“Yeah. That’s unfortunately it. Which is why I keep to myself. The more immortals you take down, the stronger you get. You absorb your opponents’ strength and the strength they took from their victories... so you become incredibly strong... eventually.”

“That’s so fucked up... I don’t even know how to...” Enjolras looked sick and he rushed to the bathroom.

Athelstan sat back and pushed his hands between his thighs, hoping he was safe from Enjolras. After all these years, had he really imagined he would survive literally forever? Someday, someone would find him if he was one of the last ones.

“Athelstan?” Enjolras said timidly when he re-emerged in the nave. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Would you like some food? I made food, but it’s cold now.”

“Not right now, but soon.”

“Sure. Anything, all right?”

Enjolras came closer and went to stand next to him. “Please don’t kill me. Trust me when I tell you that I want to live.”

“As do I... but together we can take care of each other, what do you say?” Athelstan suggested.

Enjolras just nodded. “This is much bigger than me. What was it you said was the purpose besides being the last one?”

Athelstan took a deep calming breath. “I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure that out myself. I believe there is a higher purpose, like a serene condition of influence... but it’s too big for me. Too much expectation and responsibility towards something I can’t even understand. I am devout... to some extent, but I try my best. This Game is something I didn’t even have to think about.” 

Enjolras, who stood close by almost leaning against Athelstan’s stool, nodded. “I have no clue what you just said,” he said sheepishly.

“I don't want to play God just because I get powers. I don't wish to be seduced by the prospect of getting ‘power’.”

“Oh...” Enjolras frowned. “Like Darth Vader?”

“You know about Star Wars?” Athelstan asked hoping for a film kindred spirit.

“I’ve seen a few. Couldn’t really catch my interest.”

“Oh. A shame. Do you like Disney movies?”

“...yes?” Enjolras replied. “You have any?”

“I have everything.”

The reluctance seemed to melt away from Enjolras’ face and with a determined smile he said, “All right. You’ve convinced me to stay.”

. ~ɤ~ .

The chosen movie had the opposite effect. More times than he could count, Enjolras sat biting his lip, because emotions came and went.

“I’ll go warm up your food,” Athelstan said half through the movie.

“Thanks,” Enjolras replied as he pushed thumb and pointer into his closed eyes.

Bringing him a bowl and utensils, Enjolras received them gratefully. 

For a while, the young man sat quietly staring into the food. Then he started talking about what he had been through.

“I was in a club, an army of sorts. It was supposed to be a secret, but we were proud of it. Being part of it meant something and gave me a purpose I had been looking for, when my studies from time to time became less inspiring. What I shared with this group of people made a difference and I had so much in common with them, you know? We wanted to change the glaring inequality and discriminating conditions in our society.”

Athelstan just nodded. This matter had always been on people’s minds for as long as he could remember. Change for the better was always evolving, successfully upgraded occasionally that even made history. However, in truth, people were never satisfied; always wanting more and they were rightly entitled to. That was how progress was made.

“Initially, you get lured in by these _fights_...” Enjolras continued, indicating something with his arm. “...they were physical. At least a few times a month, I would show up at my lectures with a blue eye or a split lip. The feeling was like nothing else, absurd even, and people’s reactions thrilled me,” he said passionately. 

Hastily, Enjolras’ eyes darted at Athelstan, but nothing about his story was shocking. A sense of belonging was very human - even a misguided one. “Go on,” he encouraged the young man.

“Well, like I indicated, we didn’t only fight. We also organised events, tried to change things, but somewhere along the way it went too far. The leader... Montparnasse... he... uh...” Enjolras closed his eyes and had to take a few moments to collect himself. “He was a bit of a psychopath, only I just didn’t realise it until it was too late.”

“Did he do it?”

Enjolras stared at him for a few moments, but looked away when he continued his story, “We all fought each other. But the general rule was that once your opponent couldn’t fight back, the fight stopped. So, after one of our events, on the eve of the 19th, we came back to our location and I fought him. He challenged me. But something must have snapped because he didn't stop. He... he just...” Enjolras’ lower lip wobbled and he tried to stop it by biting down hard.

Athelstan took the bowl and put it on the coffee table. Once more, he gathered Enjolras in his arms and let him cry. 

“It wasn’t a fight anymore. He just kicked and attacked me like a crazed man until I blacked out. And the next thing I remember was waking up inside the bag about to drown... again... and again... Every part of my body hurt like fucking hell, Athelstan... _shit_...” he gritted out. 

“You’re all right now...” was all the monk could say. It would take Enjolras some time to get over what had happened. He wouldn’t forget it, but he could leave it behind him and move forward.

Enjolras stayed in his arms for the rest of the movie. Athelstan fed him from the bowl because the young man was too exhausted to do it himself. Afterwards, Athelstan got up and dragged him on his feet by pulling his hands. Enjolras followed him without a word and crawled directly into bed. He chuckled tiredly when Athelstan covered him in the duvet. 

Athelstan left him alone. He would be asleep minutes later, anyway.

. ~ɤ~ .

A few hours passed with Athelstan sitting by his desk in the pulpit trying to figure out more about this Montparnasse character. To his shock, it was almost too easy. Since dumping Enjolras in the sea, the group he’d belonged to hadn’t been wasting their time but decided to launch their terror. This happened 48 hours ago, but their plans had been caught in time by MI6. They had been on to the group weeks before and were ready to apprehend the fractions all over the country on the 20th.

Montparnasse had been reported to every possible high authority. The accusations were astronomical: terrorism, conspiracy, data breaches, bomb threats, corruption, manipulation, murder attempts, blackmail... The list kept growing, and his organisation was attached to all of it. This was high treason. They had planned an economic breakdown of the World Bank, thinking it would make a change. That chaos would change the world into something better. As far as Athelstan could estimate, the people closest to Montparnasse must have realised that their plans had gone too far. They had individuals in their group from within the social network of every thinkable government institution who could have made that impossible, but luckily others saw reason to break up the destructive plans before the damage was irrevocable.

As shocking as these news were, in a sense, everything seemed to come into place in Athelstan’s limited world: A life was taken to save mankind and his reward was eternal life. Athelstan wondered if Enjolras himself was his Prize? A companion for eternity. That Athelstan was the one to find him was the only solution, the only possible conclusion. Had Enjolras been found by someone else, the consequences for him could have been too much to handle, and it would have been dangerous for him. 

Regarding the terrorism Enjolras had been part of at the time, Athelstan’s intuition told him that Enjolras was only following orders. Like a loyal soldier manipulated to obey orders as in any other army, the young man was blinded by a magnificent seducer; a charmer who knew how to point out the bad sides in life, and make his followers believe it would make a difference to destroy what other people valued. Having seen as well as participated in battles during the course of his long life, Athelstan knew all these pitfalls like the back of his hand. 

Enjolras had barely been part of the organisation for more than a few months, and didn’t strike Athelstan as a man who’d deliberately hurt someone else just to suit his own cause. His participation in terrorism shouldn’t be excused, but sometimes circumstances could be excused and Enjolras had already been executed by his own leader for his mistakes. 

Montparnasse was a deranged man who was now in custody, waiting for his trial. 

Before Athelstan was done, he printed the most relevant of the articles he’d found about Montparnasse and the group. Putting them in an envelope, he then readied himself for bed. When he was well arranged under the cover, he turned his back to Enjolras before he fell asleep.

. ~ɤ~ .


	3. Chapter 3

. ~ɤ~ .

Enjolras lay on his stomach looking out of the huge Roman windows behind him. Having a whole night's slept behind him made everything seem a little more distant from yesterday. The island was peaceful, but he felt an itch under his skin. He wasn’t used to peaceful. Hearing Athelstan approach him, he turned around to sit upright.

“Slept well?” the monk asked having brought him a cup of tea.

“Yeah. I’m a bit better.” Nodding gratefully, he took the cup.

“Is your name French?” Athelstan asked with a small smile.

Enjolras smiled back. Athelstan was sweet looking with an innocent wonder to his face that belied his age but made Enjolras feel confident in his presence. “It is, but I don’t even speak the language.”

“Why? It’s a classic language.”

“If you say so. You speak it?”

“I do. But then I speak... I don’t even know how many languages. You pick up stuff here and there,” Athelstan laughed looking a little awkward about it.

“How old are you exactly?” Enjolras asked. He’d been wondering about that since yesterday but couldn’t tell.

“Ancient,” Athelstan said and shrugged with his little smile.

“Please... indulge me here,” Enjolras said.

“I’m...” Athelstan looked down and bit his lip. “...around 1,200 hundred years old.” Then he got up from his stool and stepped down to the kitchen island further below. “Want some breakfast?”

Enjolras sat mentally annihilated looking at Athelstan who stood still with both hands resting on the edge of the kitchen counter. Enjolras had never felt so small. So insignificant. He’d been behaving like a brat towards Athelstan, who had been around this world for aeons but still looked like the kid in the school yard everyone picked at.

“Please, don’t do that,” Athelstan begged, sensing the young man’s stupefied expression and looked toward him. “It's really not as impressive as it sounds. I don’t remember most of my life. The brain tends to sort through memories and discard the unimportant stuff.”

“But the things you must have seen? History!”

“Not much of it, to be honest. I lived here. For as long as I remember, I lived here or in the monastery in Durham. Later on, I travelled for a long period but always came back. Of course, I recall my travels the best. My days living here blends together. Adjusting is taxing and difficult to not get behind when the world progresses around you progresses. Getting a new identity periodically is also tiring. It wasn’t an issue back in the day. People around me didn’t live long lives due to diseases, war, and such, to notice that I didn’t age. I also did my best to disappear to avoid it from becoming an issue.”

“All right. All of that makes sense. How about... can _we_ get sick?” Enjolras asked. “I mean. I fucking hope you don’t get sick or anything ad leave me here all alone. I never paid attention in health classes.”

“No, _we_ can’t. You might catch viruses, but you recuperate so fast that you don't get sick from them. Or cavities...”

“...cool...” Enjolras said nodding.

“Come down and join me. Let’s have another talk. I have something to show you anyway.”

Enjolras climbed out of bed and came down to join Athelstan by the kitchen island.

“Here. I found this for you.”

Reaching out, Enjolras took the envelope. Already when he opened it, he had a feeling he knew what the contents were. Dropping the convolute upside down, several photos and articles fell out. Getting to the ones accounting for Montparnasse’s destiny didn’t take him long, and he gasped reading about that and of all the mayhem he knew had been planned. However, the destruction connected to them didn’t sink in until he saw how corrupted everything had been. He was ashamed, and noticed that his reaction pleased Athelstan. He had learned a frighteningly valuable lesson. 

“Honestly, I thought we were making a revolution... but this is... I should be in prison,” he confessed weakly, shaken even.

“You’ve suffered enough, Enjolras. Immortals never growing a day old, don’t belong in prison. Too many questions will come up that you cannot answer,” was Athelstan’s response as he put the prints away. “It’s time to look forward and be grateful that you were lucky to avoid that.”

Shuddering, Enjolras had to ask, “You’re still serious about the immortal thing?”

“Do you want to have another go at the pictures I took of you yesterday?”

Enjolras did not. They were horrific to look at. He looked dead. “No, I’d rather not. I understand that it’s a fact. I just can’t...”

“Give yourself time to acclimate to the thought. It’ll get easier in time.” Athelstan looked at him before he continued, “You were killed by someone you trusted. It's not easy to deal with."

"He was my..." Enjolras didn't want to say boyfriend out loud because it had been an illusion. Thinking about the many times he'd been in Montparnasse's bed, with the man using his body as he pleased, it all made the blond feel queasy. He'd been so naïve and blind. Now it was nauseatingly embarrassing. 

As if sensing his discomfort, Athelstan broke the silence and said, "My death... I was... sacrificing myself to God, only to wake up in a grave.”

“What do you mean? Sacrificing?” Enjolras didn't like the sound of that. Had the monk been abused, too?

“The boat builder of my village killed me. I think he was blinded by envy of the trust his king had in my counselling and friendship. It’s complex for you to understand the nuances of living in that particular time. It was in the age of the Vikings.” Athelstan smiled a little as if remembering back that time. Most of it had been good times.

“No shit? They conquered England back in the day, right?” Enjolras asked, fascinated by Athelstan's life.

The monk nodded. “Looking back I suppose it was cool. But at the time... trust me. It wasn’t. I was almost cru...” he stopped himself in time and shook his head. “Not going there...” he quickly muttered to himself. “Anyway. I woke up inside a grave.”

Enjolras’ mind was reeling. “They _buried_ you?”

“They could only assume I was dead! The Vikings were fond of using their axe as weapon. I was probably found with one of those buried in my skull. I wouldn't know. So yes. I was buried. And like you, I suffocated several times in my panic to try and dig myself out of there.”

“How could you even tell you were in a grave?”

“There was dirt everywhere... I don’t know. I just knew.”

“You weren’t in a coffin?”

Athelstan smiled; his small white teeth seemed almost childlike and once more Enjolras thought he was endearing. “No. It would have taken me longer if that had been the case. I wasn’t a Viking. I come from these parts. But circumstances put me in their lives even though I was a Christian monk. Obviously, I wasn’t going to Valhalla, so they just put me in the ground hoping that was the right direction for my soul.”

“Thank God they didn’t burn you.”

“It would have been painful to wake from that...”

Enjolras stopped breathing and looked at Athelstan. “...really?” he finally asked.

“You would probably survive it, but it would take months to recuperate I guess.”

“...wow,” Enjolras said, the mental image of a charred corpse trying to turn back into a human being was disturbing. 

Then his stomach rumbled and he smiled. “Is there any food in this shabby B&B?”

Athelstan chuckled and pointed toward a stainless steel refrigerator. “Help yourself. We're always stocked.”

“Do you go out and shop?”

“Nah. Not if I can avoid it. I order groceries to have brought out every three weeks or so. Let me know if you need something. I have a garden that provides certain produce depending on the season, but I don't really often need anything that I have to leave Lindisfarne to get.”

“That’s convenient.”

“It really is. The shop has delivered for at least twenty years now, and they never ask any questions. All my other bills are automatically paid as well. I try to be practical.”

. ~ɤ~ .

Morning turned into afternoon with the two of them swapping questions at each other, both eager to know everything about the other. Enjolras found it interesting that the first immortal ever to cross Athelstan’s way was also named Enjolras, but he had no idea if there had ever been a monk in his lineage. He knew nothing about his real family to begin with because he was adopted.

“What a shame.”

“Not to me. I hope my real parents are better people than those who adopted me. It makes you wonder sometimes why they went through the trouble only to get divorced when I was three.”

“Who did you stay with?”

“At first, my dad, but he died when I was ten, and then I was in foster care because my mum was unstable. I never saw her again. I ran away from the last place I was, because they already had many kids and didn’t care if I was there anyway. Sometimes, one of the older kids would beat me up, just because I was annoying to him. So in the end I just left.”

“You could have become immortal much sooner then. Good thing you left,” Athelstan said.

Enjolras nodded, understanding how his life would have been so much different. He ruffled his blond hair and looked at Athelstan.

“How old were you then?” the monk asked.

“Late sixteen? Early seventeen probably... it was around those birthdays. Maybe even because. They didn’t bother celebrating birthdays. It was... uh...” Enjolras stopped when he saw the look in Athelstan’s eyes. “I’m all right now. I actually got a better life after I turned eighteen. I could do as I wanted and live where I wanted. I was just not accounted for that last year.”

“Where did you live?”

“With friends. Some of my school mates’ parents didn't mind me staying over and knew about my home life. In that sense, I was lucky. I got to go to college.”

Athelstan reached over and instinctively, Enjolras took his hand. After a quick squeeze they both let go again.

“Do you still want to go to school?” Athelstan asked.

“Yeah. I’m supposed to graduate this summer... oh, shit...”

“We’ll figure out how you do that on line. Of course, you should have your degree.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. How old were you when you died?” he asked the monk.

“Late twenties.”

“You look like my age.”

“Oh, thank you,” Athelstan chuckled and shook his hair coyly. “And you don’t look a day older than the first time I saw you.”

They both grinned. “Want a refill?” Enjolras offered and Athelstan nodded happily.

Enjolras took their mugs to the counter and made more tea. When he came back he checked the time. A few minutes past 2pm. Enjolras felt like doing something other than sitting around talking for hours.

“Would it be all right if I took a walk alone around the island for a bit?”

Immediately, Athelstan looked alarmed. “Don’t stray. The tide...”

“I know... I won’t overdo anything. How much time do I have?”

Athelstan checked his wrist watch. “Barely an hour. I’m serious, Enjolras.”

“I get it, all right?”

“If you’re not back in twenty minutes, I’m coming after you. That’s how serious this is. The shores will be covered up to four metres of water within minutes, and even though there are elevated safety refuge boxes along the path to the mainland, they are old and could collapse...”

“All right, all right. I’ve got it, Athelstan! I won’t walk on the path and will stay clear of the shore. I’ll stay on the island.”

The monk didn't look convinced but didn't try to prevent him from exploring the surroundings either. “I’ve seen hundreds of people drown...”

“You forget that I cannot die from drowning...” 

Enjolras didn’t stay for the rest the warning speech but slipped outside, ready to be wowed.

. ~ɤ~ .

The church was built on a small hill and he was able to see everything from there. Besides the buildings and ruins straight ahead, he realised how vast and yet utterly beautiful the island was. As far as he could see beyond the remains of the village, the island consisted of marshland, endless grass, and little white dots that probably were grazing wild stock.

Walking to the nearest shoreline, Enjolras enjoyed the sand between his toes when he finally reached it. He'd lost his shoes, since he hadn't worn any when he died. Turning, he glanced back towards the ruins surrounding the hill far away. Cocking his hip, he felt how information came easier to him. There wasn’t much he could do about the embarrassing mess he’d been involved in other than acknowledging that it had happened and he was still alive. 

Pulling off his shirt, Enjolras skimmed his hands down the front of his body. There weren’t a single scar or bruise no matter how he twisted and turned to make sure. Quickly, he put the shirt back on. The breeze was cooler by the waterfront. Walking back a few steps, he sat down in the sand and looked out at the shallow water. Durham city was in the horizon about a mile away. _Montparnasse will be trialled soon,_ was his next thought, and a huge fulfilment spread in his body. 

“I hope that psycho gets what he deserves...” Invigorated with satisfaction, he got back to the top of the hill and surveyed the other side of the triangular island. He figured he could reach the southern part of the island and be back, before Athelstan came and dragged him home by the ear. Well, wouldn’t that be funny? At least as long as he stayed away from the shore he was good.

The island was big enough that he could take several trips some other day. He didn’t have to see everything all at once. And he also wanted to explore the village. If Athelstan ever got sick of him, he could always move into one of the vacated houses. He didn’t feel like living alone, though. Staying with Athelstan already felt right, and the generous monk had practically insisted that he didn’t leave. Trying to imagine one hundred years ahead, Enjolras thought about how everyone he ever knew would be dead.

But not Athelstan. He would still be there and knowing that was a relief, and the only reason to why Enjolras hadn’t already lost his marbles in pure panic at the daunting prospect of living for an eternity.

Then Enjolras experienced a reality check. He hadn’t been around his London dorm for a few weeks, after he practically moved into Montparnasse’s underground compound along with the other comrades. There were things in his dorm he still needed. Athelstan had warned him that he might be wanted now and could risk being arrested. The monk had promised to find out and Enjolras hadn’t asked how he did that, but he could imagine how that was accomplished.

His journey took him to a path that had once upon a time been paved but was gradually ruined by nature simply pushing through the material. Along the path he saw a few huge trees scattered here and there over grassy plains that clearly used to be farmland. He felt a deep respect because it would have been convenient to just chop those down for firewood, but Athelstan hadn’t touched them. He probably imported his logs to keep his fireplace going.

Parts of rubbled dikes stuck up here and there in the landscape. To make sure they didn’t fall apart and to give the animals protection, Athelstan said he maintained them himself using materials from the buildings in the village. Enjolras supposed it was one way of recycling decaying construction rubbish, plus it gave the monk something to do. The deserted village itself was a sorry sight. The salty winds drifting in from the sea were systematically tearing them down, since Athelstan only took care of the church and castle; the only buildings he found worth restoring.

Rubbing his arms as a chilly breeze went through the fabric of his shirt, Enjolras sensed the change in the weather and he returned towards the hill. The higher he got, he saw that the tide indeed had increased. He couldn’t even see the spot where he sat earlier. It was below water now.

Athelstan stood in the door waiting for him. 

“Did you miss me?” Enjolras asked caustically, but the monk just lifted an eyebrow.

“I kept an eye on you. You behaved exemplary. It would have been annoying having to rescue you from drowning again.” 

“I wouldn’t have died.”

“Oh, that’s smashing, Enjolras. Only, it’s very likely that I wouldn’t have been able to find you out there, so you could have had a repeat from the last couple of days at sea,” was Athelstan’s clever response.

They kept staring each other down and Enjolras was thrilled by it. Finally, Athelstan lost interest and stepped aside in spite of there being enough space for Enjolras to pass him. When he did, he turned slowly walking backwards still looking at the monk. Their eyes were locked and it turned him on.

“You clean up the mess,” Athelstan said and pointed at the sand he’d dragged inside.

Changing direction, Enjolras came back to the monk. “Of course. Where are the cleaning utensils, darling?”

Athelstan tried not to smile, but he couldn’t.

“You’d be a sad poker player,” Enjolras smirked.

“I know. Why don’t you make tea today, darling?”

“I can’t cook,” Enjolras lied, smirking at having the endearment thrown back at him.

“Not a problem, Enjolras. I have Jamie Oliver’s children’s cookery book. Pick a random page and learn. And in the closet in the church porch, you’ll find what you need to clean the mess.” With those words, Athelstan stepped around him and went to sit on the couch in front of the fire with his legs pulled up.

Enjolras snorted at the monk’s sassiness, but didn’t complain. This was only the second day of the rest of his life. He might get used to the change.

. ~ɤ~ .

After tea, consisting of a couple of omelettes, the two men played a few board games to pass time. Monopoly had always been Enjolras’ favourite. Luckily, Athelstan shared his enthusiasm for the game.

“I need to get back to London, by the way.”

Athelstan looked at him questioningly. “Why is that important?”

“I need my stuff from my dorm. It’s not like I need your permission, Athelstan...”

“Of course not, but do you really need them?” 

“Yeah. I do. What’s it to you?”

“Will you need it in five years? Ten years? Twenty years?”

Enjolras looked away. “I don't know. Maybe. I can’t tell.”

“It’s just too risky and you don’t have a weapon,” Athelstan said pointing at him, “And if you do have a weapon _and_ is recognised by security cameras... you could end up even worse. I’ve already explained this to you!”

“I get the risk, all right?” Enjolras was getting tired of how cautious and rational Athelstan was.

“Is this stuff of yours worth that risk?”

“Maybe I just want an excuse to get close enough to wring his fucking neck,” he muttered.

“Montparnasse?”

“Yes!” Enjolras snapped.

“May I remind you again that you cannot die? Cannot grow old?”

“Well - yeah. I get that, but I wasn’t gonna subject myself to these...”

“But you just died from having done exactly that. Are you any wiser that you weren’t four days ago?”

The young man didn’t answer. Of course, he wasn’t any wiser; just filled with righteous frustration he couldn't channel anywhere.

“We should go to bed,” the monk said.

Surprised by the change of subject, Enjolras looked at him. He wasn’t used to people telling him when to go to bed. On the other hand, if Athelstan went to bed now, being awake alone in the church didn’t sound too exciting. “Okay. Sure... We probably should. Where do you sleep? You’re always up when I wake up.”

“There’s only one bed,” Athelstan said taking the dishes and putting them in the sink. Then he went to secure the fireplace for the night.

Enjolras’ attention switched between looking at Athelstan and following the direction of the bed. “Yeah... all right. I see that, but where do _you_ sleep?”

“In the bed, Enjolras,” Athelstan clarified and leaned against the whitewashed wall next to the fire place.

A small scoff slipped out, because Enjolras hadn’t even calculated the variable that they had slept in the same bed last night. He hadn’t even sensed Athelstan lying next to him.

“Can you handle that, little immortal? Or else you’re welcome to sleep on a mattress in the sacristy. It’s fucking cold, though,” Athelstan challenged him with dancing eyes.

Enjolras looked at Athelstan and the way he stood. Of course, he could handle a tiny monk sleeping next to him, especially someone as sweet looking as the ancient undying. Enjolras just hadn’t fully realised what a simple life the man lead, as to only have one bed. He claimed he never had visitors so not cluttering his home with extra beds made sense. 

“Let’s go to bed,” Enjolras finally said. “Do you have an extra toothbrush?”

. ~ɤ~ .

When Enjolras showed up next to the bed freshly showered, Athelstan was already lying on his back with his hands folded on top of the duvet.

“Did you even brush your teeth?” Enjolras asked, as he took in the sight.

“Yes. My toothbrush is by the kitchen sink. I don’t have to use the loo to remove my make up.”

“Ha ha. Very funny,” Enjolras said, but he had spent time on a bit of grooming. He’d used the extra razor blade to shave off several days’ growth of stubble. “Do you have a favourite side?” he asked his roommate.

“Come to bed, Enjolras,” Athelstan said to him. His black curly hair was fanning over the pillow and he looked young and untouched by time. “What is it?” he whispered, sensing the mood change in Enjolras. His pale green eyes caught the light almost enchantingly.

Enjolras couldn't take his eyes off him; the way the flicker from the candle cast a soft glow over Athelstan’s sharp features and bare torso. “I think...” he said almost in wonder, before he had to swallow a lump of emotions that came out of nowhere, “...that I like... I’m gonna like it here,” he quickly corrected, instead of what he almost meant to say. 

Athelstan smiled genuinely and it didn’t do much to slow Enjolras’ racing heart rate down. He hadn’t anticipated how much he liked the thought of sharing Athelstan’s bed after all.

“Come to bed,” Athelstan repeated, and lifted the corner of the duvet.

Still baffled by this new discovery, Enjolras undressed and crawled up to join him. “Are you naked?”

“Of course. You’re a furnace when you sleep,” Athelstan replied wiggling his eyebrows.

Enjolras didn’t know what to say after that fact. After some time, he just lay in the dark listening to Athelstan breathe evenly. “So we are not cuddling?” he joked.

“Would you like to?”

“Don’t answer with a question, ‘Stan.”

“I will cut off your head, if you abbreviate my name again,” Athelstan hissed at him.

“Sorry...” Enjolras smirked and turned to face him. The bed wear gave a delicious crisp sound when he moved. Athelstan didn’t shift to face him in kind, but he didn't turn away either. “Goodnight. Sleep well, Athelstan,” Enjolras finally said, and reached out under the duvet to touch the monk’s chest.

“Sleep well, darling,” Athelstan replied as his hand moved to rest and curl around Enjolras’.

. ~ɤ~ .


	4. Chapter 4

In the morning, Athelstan’s dreams were interrupted by an annoying steady noise. Finally, he realised that it was Enjolras’ heartbeat, and that he had used the young man’s chest as a pillow at some point. Only now, it wasn’t comfortable any longer. Sitting up he looked at his house guest. They had slept close. Athelstan never did that. He never trusted other people to let his guard down like that.

“Why do I insist we sleep in the same bed...” He squinted his eyes, as he looked at the temperamental young man. Experience had taught him that people can’t change their nature. They can learn how to suppress it but can never truly change. Sharing his life with Enjolras would be a challenge on every account, because their personalities couldn’t be more opposite.

Reaching out to run his hand gently across Enjolras’ cheek and further into his cropped curls, he organised his thoughts. He was a priest; devout as much as he was able to because immortality couldn’t possibly have been made in God’s image. In time, he’d come to accept that his self-preservation wasn’t less driven than any other mortal, and that at the end of the day, God had no use of his faith induced conducts. They were entirely selfish to endure living forever. He’d slipped up a thousand times throughout his long life: he’d killed, harmed, stolen, lied, coerced, and other sinful accounts that probably matched the mindset of a seasoned criminal like Montparnasse. He had no excuse other than circumstances had forced him, and he always came back to ground himself in the church. Without believing in God, life would be unbearable. 

So, the temptation of the flesh was Athelstan’s least worry. That was no worse than anything else he’d done in his life. Usually, he wasn’t lured because he stayed away from people who wanted to seduce him. So why was he letting someone who could be potentially dangerous so close?

Just one look at Enjolras’ face and he knew perfectly well why. The young immortal promised stimulating company. Athelstan hadn’t allowed himself that for a very long time, and he was willing to ignore the aspect of danger to get that. Lying down again, he put his head back on Enjolras’ chest. Gradually, he wrapped his arms around him and pulled himself closer. Enjolras sighed in his sleep but didn’t react further. Athelstan looked at the ceiling to enjoy the usual morning display of the sun casting colourful rays around the room. There were things he wanted to show Enjolras. Since he needed to practise anyway, he would combine that by teaching Enjolras the way of the immortals. If he was keen on going to London, Athelstan couldn't really prevent him from going, but he could insist on coming with him. 

He didn’t want to risk losing him so soon after he’d found him.

. ~ɤ~ .

After breakfast, Enjolras explored all the crooks and crannies of the church, and was now checking out the entire wall of bookshelves Athelstan had made of the church benches that used to line both sides of the nave.

“Are these Dan Brown?” 

“Yeah. I’ve got all of them.”

“But... they’re in Latin?” Enjolras asked confused.

“No. They’re in _calligraphy_. That’s how I write.”

“You hand wrote these books? All the books on the shelves?”

Athelstan shrugged. “More or less.”

“But there must be hundreds!”

“Try thousands. The church up the hill also serves as my external library, plus there are more in the sacristy,” Athelstan said indicating the heavy wooden door in the left side mid ship.

“The door is locked. I checked,” Enjolras pointed out.

Athelstan smiled. “I know it is.”

“I wish I could write like that.”

“I could teach you,” Athelstan offered immediately.

“Cool.” Pulling at a spine, Enjolras withdrew a book. Athelstan hurried over. 

_“Careful,_ Enjolras!”

“I am! Why is the paper so weird?”

“It’s made of pulp.”

“I bet you made that as well...”

“Well... now that you mention it...”

“Man, do you have like your own bee hive, too? Like a proper fucking friar?”

Athelstan shrugged. “Yeah... so?”

Enjolras chuckled. “You’re such a nerd, you know that?”

“Always thought I was more of a hipster,” Athelstan responded and made Enjolras laugh. “What? It was a popular thing about a century ago.”

“Hipsters?”

“Yeah,” Athelstan said. “I can show you the pictures.”

“That’s quite all right,” Enjolras chuckled. “Hipsters are still around.” Then his eyes fell on a new shiny toy. “How old is the organ over there in front of the hideous statue?”

“It’s a cenotaph. An empty tomb. But it did contain the remains of Saint Albain when I came to live here. The smell was foul.”

“People were actually buried here? Inside the church?”

“If they paid well, they could. Don’t worry,” Athelstan said and raised his hands. “I had the floors redone and any remains of dead people are now buried outside in the grave yard.”

Enjolras just stared at him. “Does that mean we have ghosts?”

“Yes,” Athelstan said and wiggled his eye brows.

“Really?” Enjolras asked.

“Really,” Athelstan replied, not bull shitting the young man. “But they don't come by often. They’re busy outside with the real Goth crowd and bones.”

Enjolras shuddered. “Honestly, they can just stay out there.”

“They’re not so bad,” Athelstan said. “It was worse when I lived in the monastery. Ghosts appeared every time we...” He stopped when he realised that Enjolras was more spooked than entertained. “Anyway...” They stood in front of the organ. “To answer your question, the organ’s not that old. 1880’s, I think.”

“Does it play anymore?”

“Yes,” Athelstan said patiently. “It was used right up until I took over the island.”

“Okay, but do you play it? Can you play it?” Enjolras asked, eyeing the huge instrument curiously.

Athelstan put a finger on the lacquered lid to the keyboard. “Not very often. I tend to forget it’s there. I have so many chores, you know?”

“May I?”

“Can you play?”

“Not well...”

“It’s different to a regular keyboard.”

“Doesn’t matter. It would be something to do.”

“What can you do?” Athelstan asked interested.

“Compared to you pretty much nothing.”

“You can always do something. You lied about cooking, but it turned out that you cook quite satisfactorily.”

Enjolras scoffed as he looked at him. “Satisfactorily? Really?”

Athelstan knew he was playing with him. The tension that had built up between them since last night was pleasant, but they had important tasks today. They could play footsie again later. He took the key from his pocket and went to the other side of the nave and unlocked the sacristy. “Come inside and have a look, but put these on.” He handed Enjolras a pair of white cotton gloves.

“Oh, my fucking bloody god,” Enjolras whispered in awe as soon as he was let loose in the room. “I’ve never seen shit like this. Well, a bit here and there, museums and the likes, but Jesus fucking Christ. This is incredible.”

Athelstan leaned against the door and watched the young man walk around. 

“These are... YOURS?” he said, not believing his own eyes. Excited like a kid, he walked around and touched things carefully. In spite of a slight Spartan vibe, besides the loungey sofa arrangement by the fireplace and the lavish kitchen island, Athelstan’s church was only subtly decorated with small antiques like the many curule stools in the corners, knick knack in between the books on the shelves, or paintings from various eras on the walls. Seeing Enjolras being blown away by how much the sacristy contained was fun.

Athelstan hid his mouth in his palm, hoping he could trust Enjolras with this knowledge. “Over there is my swords collection.”

“Is that a euphemism for something else?”

“No,” Athelstan laughed self-consciously. The wording hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Um... anyway.”

Enjolras spun and slowly went to the indicated direction. The swords were displayed on a rack in several glass cases. They were fantastic, but in the sacristy everything was overwhelming: jewellery, period costumes, utensils, crosses, vases, statues, more paintings, and the list went on. The inventory had never belonged to Lindisfarne in any of its administrative periods nor when the government owned it. These were Athelstan’s personal belongings accumulated throughout his long life.

“The stuff you have here is...” Enjolras just lifted his arms to let them fall down. He didn’t have words.

“I’m lucky I have collected this much from my life through history. I always liked keeping things to remind me of a certain event or whatever. But at a certain point, I realised the value of not letting go of the old and out of fashion. All though it hasn’t always been easy to store when I had to travel. I’ve lost a lot, too. And preservation wasn’t always possible. I’ve had pretty cool clothes but most of it is lost. Literally perished.”

“I can only imagine. Looks like you robbed a museum, Athelstan!” Enjolras gushed again.

“Not from a museum. Nobody knows I have these things because they’ve always belonged to me. But they’re just bits and pieces that I was wise enough to keep. Not like the throw away mentality of the 21st century.”

“You must have been around... seriously, I envy you. I have the luxury to look back in history through books and movies, but you’ve actually been living it. Witnessing _progress_ and evolution as it happened.” Enjolras looked admiringly at Athelstan like he was a famous person from history himself.

“Well, like I said before, I wasn’t really experiencing much in long periods of time. Mostly, I was bent over my desk in the scriptorium of whatever monastery I lived in at the time. And also, you don’t know what becomes history, because like you, I can only live in the now. Later, I can also look back and sometimes I was right in the middle of it, but to be honest I wasn’t paying attention unless it affected me directly.” Athelstan smiled and came nearer. “I’ll try and think of some moments in time for you. I just need time to go back.”

“Twelve hundred years? Take all the time you need, mate,” Enjolras said and smiled. He looked longingly at a box of mixed junk.

“You’re allowed to touch things, you know. Or wear things.” Athelstan found a Rococo chair and sat down to enjoy the show.

Grinning, Enjolras began an exploration in history that lasted the rest of the day. It was like being a kid all over again. At some point, Athelstan went and found his camera and took many pictures of him and had one of the best days in many, many years. They both tried on a few of the old costumes and it was obvious, he was enjoying Athelstan’s company, too.

“You know,” Athelstan said pointing to a 40 by 30 cm sized painting of a young noble woman. “This painting has an interesting history. The painters Larkin and Gower shared a studio at some time. We're talking around 1600. Larkin was commissioned to paint the daughter of a friend and while the work progressed, Gower painted something of his own in the same room. This painting figured in the background of Gower’s painting. But when Larkin’s work was done, the friend couldn't afford it. I knew Larkin and decided to buy it. The only way people today know of this painting’s existence is because of Gower’s painting and from the letter from Larkin’s friend stating he can’t afford to buy it.”

“So the world of art science knows it exists but nobody besides you, Larkin, and Gower has ever actually seen this painting?” Enjolras asked.

“Well, and her family. I don't even know her name.”

“That’s rather intriguing... but hey look,” Enjolras said stepping a little closer. “There is a bowl of violets on the table beside her...?” 

“Violets...” Athelstan smiled. “That's pretty clever. I bet her name was Violet, then.”

 

Eventually, they had to address the swords. Athelstan went to get his own sword.

“Try and grab each of all from the first case. The weapons in the last two are not suited for it, by the way. Then pick the one that feels right in your hand.”

“All right,” Enjolras said and worked his way through the displayed swords. Swinging and testing each in the air, he also swung the blades against Athelstan’s sword to feel the resistance, sound, and weight by connection. 

“This one feels good,” he finally said, having settled on an Italian sword from the 18th Century. “What’s the history behind it?”

“I killed its owner,” Athelstan said and shrugged.

Enjolras just stared at him. “I kind of forgot about that.”

“I know. It is wishful thinking and very natural to forget. Besides, you’d go crazy if you let it take up your thoughts, as long as you don’t literally forget to trust your instincts.” Narrowing his eyes, he looked at Enjolras. “Can you _feel_ me?”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asked, letting the corner of his mouth slip into a half smile. “I feel you all the time.”

“Not like that,” Athelstan grinned and stepped closer. “I mean... Can you sense my presence? Take this question seriously.”

Enjolras nodded, “Yes, Athelstan. I _sense_ you. I am aware when you’re near and when you’re not. Is that what you mean?”

“You don’t sense other people?”

“No. I’m aware that I’m sensing you, because we’re the same.”

“Immortals?”

“Yes.” Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I’m not dense.”

“I know that you’re not. Let’s go back to the nave and train out there.”

“Can I have a copy of the key?”

“ _Enjolras!_ ” Athelstan huffed exasperated. “I know you’re only twenty, but could you please stop acting like a child?”

The playful expression in Enjolras’ eyes fell away. “Sorry... I’m just enjoying your company.”

 _Huh..._ Athelstan was taken aback. Clever little shit. “All right, so am I. I’m happy to have you here, but please focus? This is actually for your safety that we’re doing this.”

“Right. You’re right. I’ll do as you say.”

“Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” Enjolras smirked, as the playful light returned to his eyes.

“Fuck...” Athelstan muttered when he felt himself getting a little turned on by it. 

“Did you meet immortals everywhere you went?” Enjolras asked, jabbing his sword a few times in the air.

“During my travels, some. I met most of them in central Europe, actually. There was a huge influx of people coming from all over the world. So it baffled me how broad this... _phenomenon_ was and not demographically descending from, I don't know, Italy for example,” he said and pointed at Enjolras’ sword.

“So until we resurrect from the dead, we have no way of knowing if we’re walking amongst immortals. That’s so creepy in a way.”

“We don't hurt mortals. We’re not murderers. We’re only in danger from each other.”

“Not a problem,” Enjolras quickly said, looking relieved that he wouldn’t have to worry about everyone on his path.

 

They trained a few hours, and even though the young man showed natural progress, Athelstan stopped before he tired himself. Their height difference also made it strenuous for the monk, and they would train for every day for the next few months anyway. 

Enjolras looked questioningly at him. “If we’re done, where do I put it?”

“Decide for yourself,” Athelstan shrugged. “Just somewhere where you can get to it in a hurry.”

“Got it,” Enjolras said and made a small tour of the premises to find a suitable spot. In the end, he decided to hang it on a vacant crook in the church post next to where Athelstan kept his.

When he returned, Athelstan had pulled off his sweaty shirt. Enjolras let his eyes take in the dark hairs on the monk’s chest and how his hair curled wilder now it was damp from their training. “Do you want to shower first?” he asked.

Knowing exactly what Enjolras wanted, Athelstan turned to look at him before he came closer. His eyes didn’t leave Enjolras’ and he was thrilled by it. “We could conserve energy, of course, and...”

“...shower together?” Enjolras finished the sentence hopefully.

Athelstan laughed and bit his lower lip with his small front teeth. “That wasn’t what I was going to say, but if that’s how you feel...?”

“You want to know how I feel?” Enjolras asked and stepped into his personal space. He slipped a hand around Athelstan’s neck to touch the lingering moisture, the other rested on his shoulder.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Athelstan said, welcoming his boldness and wrapped his arms around Enjolras’ waist.

“So, that’s a yes?” Enjolras asked, his voice lowering a register as his eyes focused on Athelstan’s lips.

“No,” Athelstan chuckled, letting his arms drop, and went to shower alone. 

_“You’re a bloody cock tease...!”_ Enjolras scoffed in annoyance.

“Well, thank God, there’s still a first time for something,” Athelstan replied before he slipped out of Enjolras’ sight.

. ~ɤ~ .

In the evening they had dinner outside, ate steaks, potatoes, and salad.

“These greens look suspicious.”

“They’re old herbs and greens; bitterer compared to the supermarket version of most of it. The majority of what I grow here is no longer on people’s menus. Trust me, old in this case is a good thing. The monks who lived here were rarely sick.”

Enjolras eyed him. “I just knew you were gonna say that...” Still, he indulged Athelstan’s recommendation and put a variety of the greens on his plate. “Do you have beer?”

“Not with this dish,” Athelstan said and chuckled.

“I don't like wine.”

“Have you ever tasted it?”

“Once...”

“Maybe your palate has been enriched since?”

“I can’t escape this?”

“No, but if it turns out you still don't like it, I’ll find a beer for you to drink.”

Defeated, Enjolras sighed and Athelstan poured a small amount of wine for him. With a shudder the young man drank the drops.

They looked at each other for a few moments while the bouquet settled in his mouth. Enjolras bared his teeth and pushed his glass towards Athelstan.

“Don’t say a bloody word...”

Athelstan just smiled and poured him half a glass. Enjolras looked him in the eye and drank all of it.

“That... went down awfully fast,” Athelstan said and cocked his head. They had barely begun eating yet.

“So? I suppose we can’t get drunk... being immortal and everything,” Enjolras chuckled.

“Oh, _we_ can, Enjolras. Nothing’s changed there,” Athelstan laughed at him.

Looking at his empty glass, and back to Athelstan, Enjolras shrugged and reached out for the bottle himself. “Not as bad as I recall.”

“Eat something, too.”

“I can hold my liquor, Athelstan,” Enjolras assured him.

“All right. Drag yourself to bed for all I care,” the monk said and dug into his steak.

 

Two bottles of wine later and the ambience had changed.

“Thought about your situation?” Athelstan asked, the wine having made his expression soft.

“I’m still confused, I think, mostly. Weren’t you?”

“I died in the early 800’s. When I realised I hadn't aged twenty-thirty years or so after getting out of that grave, I had to get creative to avoid suspicion. You can't imagine how long it took me to finally accept that it wasn’t going to change. Almost a _thousand_ years went by before I even encountered another immortal. I’d been alone with my own terrible curse for so long. Finally getting to know what I was was actually a relief as well as a shock. I’d had no idea I’d been in that kind of danger for so long.”

“I feel so small,” Enjolras said wistfully and looked at Athelstan for a while.

After what seemed like minutes, Athelstan continued, “Yeah. I know. We all have to start somewhere. It’s not your fault you became immortal recently.”

“Hmmm... How long has this place existed?” the blond asked, changing the subject away from his emotions.

“Oh gosh, let me think… Well, Lindisfarne Island as part of the Catholic Church is older than the Viking attacks. Irish monks settled here in 635 AD. The first Viking attack was in 793. It was raining that day...” Athelstan recalled wistfully.

“I knew it,” Enjolras breathed. “You were there.”

The tears in his eyes even surprised Athelstan, and with difficulty he swallowed. “Yes,” he finally managed to grunt. “I was. I was captured and taken from the monastery. Most of my fellow monks were slaughtered and the rest dragged along as slaves by them. It was carnage.”

Enjolras stared at him, visibly enthralled. “I suppose that’s how things were done back then. It’s just unsettling to hear that you were actually a slave to someone. So... what exactly happened to you?”

“Those who couldn’t muster the voyage back to Kattegat – that was south of Norway back then - were thrown overboard. There were only a handful of us left when we reached the shore.”

“That’s brutal.”

“Yeah. They were. But they also had kindness. I was captured by Ragnar Lodbrog. I’m sure you’ve heard of him? The most influential Viking of that time in British history?”

“Maybe… Probably?”

Athelstan smiled a little. “Well, when we returned to Kattegat, he told his warlord that he didn’t want any of the treasures they brought home to their settlement at the time.”

“Isn’t that odd?” Enjolras asked.

Nodding, Athelstan pondered. How much was he going to reveal? It really didn't matter. They only had each other to tell these tales to.

“Instead of choosing his share of the loot, he picked me.”

Enjolras took in what that could mean. “What... as a sex slave? Really?”

Athelstan let out a surprised snort. “No! Not at all. We never had sex. He took me as his house slave.” Then he stopped and nodded. “All right. To be honest, he and his wife did invite me to their bed once, actually. However, it was my first night in their household and I was terrified of everything. Chaste in my devoutness to God, I feared what they were going to do to my virgin soul.”

“I would have been terrif... wait a second,” Enjolras said, narrowing his eyes. “How did you know what they wanted?”

“I knew their language already. It’s what saved my life in the first place. I had travelled and learned other languages. I wrote and illustrated books for the monasteries I’ve lived in and at some point also for King Ecberth of Wessex. I was in demand,” Athelstan chuckled. “Well, you’ve seen my work by now. But also... they had been going at it all night. Their intentions wouldn't have been difficult to figure out - even if I hadn't known their language."

“No sex, huh?” Enjolras asked with a smile.

Athelstan actually blushed. “No sex, no. Wasn’t allowed, but don’t think I was a saint. I’ve had my modest share of sex since then.”

“Did you have many lovers?”

Making a face as he twisted his wrists to illustrate, Athelstan said, “Naaahhh... Not really. You have to understand that it hurts too much getting attached to a mortal who grows old and dies. You quickly learn how to shield your heart when it’s been broken too many times.”

“When was the last time you had sex?”

Athelstan smiled. “Damn, Enjolras! You’re inquisitive.”

“Sex... can be fun. There are films made on the topic you should watch,” Enjolras teased him.

“Um... if you say so.” Athelstan smiled. It shouldn’t be uncomfortable. They were kind of negotiating. Maybe his discomfort was because he knew at some point they were going to get physical with each other and yes, it had been a while.

“I had sex with a woman who used to live here. A widower, although I’ve slept with married women, too.”

Enjolras got up and sat down next to Athelstan.

“Adultery?”

Athelstan nodded.

“Kids?” Enjolras asked.

“No,” Athelstan immediately said. “Immortals can’t have kids. So you’ve wasted a lot of money on condoms, my friend.” Athelstan hoped the grin on his face was convincing. There was no way was he going to mention the daughter named Aethelswith that he had with Judith, King Ecberth’s daughter in law. 

One of the sacrifices of being immortal was that one couldn’t sire children. The French monk Enjolras had told him this when he trained Athelstan, but that wasn’t true. The child mirrored the image of Athelstan when she was born. A child that he never saw again after he returned to Kattegat with Ragnar, but he knew she lived to become Queen of Mercia through her marriage to King Burgred. Athelstan’s lineage died when his childless great grandson Beorhtsige was killed in the year 905.

“Did you also have sex with men?” Enjolras interrupted his thoughts.

“You know? You ask too much.”

“I take it that means yes? How old were you when you broke your ‘vow of chastity?’” Enjolras asked with a knowing smile. 

“Mid twenties, and I’m not telling you about any of it. It’s in the past.”

“Fair enough. I’m still blown away by how incredible this is.” Enjolras picked up an earlier conversion instead.

“Of course. The problem is I can’t tell anyone about my life. Who’d believe me?”

Enjolras nodded slowly. “Yeah... I won’t be able to tell this to my friends in school either...” The second it dawned on the young man that that part of his life was over, Athelstan felt the sorrow so keenly he reached out and grabbed Enjolras.

“They’ll die one day, and I’ll be here not even noticing when they...” he said in stunned realisation.

Athelstan put his arm around his shoulder. “It’ll be all right someday. I promise. Someday, you’ll handle it better,” he whispered. “Now you morn, Enjolras.”

. ~ɤ~ .

“Everything you’ve told me and shown me today is really messing with me. My thoughts are all over the place,” Enjolras said when they lay next to each other in bed.

“Your brain will sort it for you. You’ll probably have funny dreams tonight,” Athelstan said, enjoying the drowsiness that settled upon him.

Their finger tips touched lightly, playfully, as silence set upon them.

“Soon we have to find a way to get to Montparnasse at his trial and then I’ll kill him,” Enjolras suddenly announced.

Athelstan chuckled. “That’s funny. I just thought I heard you say you’re going to kill Montparnasse.”

“I did.”

“Not all by yourself, you’re not.”

Enjolras looked at him. Clearly, he was not joking.

"All right then. I'll help you."

"Thanks..."

Athelstan’s drowsiness had disappeared and he stared at the ceiling for a while. _Have I just created a monster by saving you?_ Maybe the young man hadn’t been sent to him for comfort after all, but to make sure Athelstan truly was the last of the immortals. 

Letting his tongue slide along his lower lip, his fingers slipped under the mattress checking for the small sword he always kept there. 

In the long run, it might be safer to just kill Enjolras, even though that was the last thing he wanted.

Turning his head slowly, Athelstan studied Enjolras’ classic profile as sleep claimed him.

But not yet. 

Most likely never.

. ~ɤ~ .


	5. Chapter 5

Enjolras continued to be trained by Athelstan. The young man clearly had talent and a fierce determination for the sport and, by the end of the week, Athelstan wasn’t training him anymore but more competing against him. The lessons had become an extension to the huge potential Enjolras displayed as a swordsman.

“You could join the Olympics Team,” Athelstan joked, but Enjolras was not interested in glory. 

“No. I want revenge on that manipulative arsehole.”

Athelstan didn't like it. Every time Enjolras mentioned his desire for revenge, the monk’s face scrunched slightly in worry. 

Enjolras stepped into his personal space and put his arms around him. Even though Athelstan was smaller and shorter, his muscles were defined in all the right places. Teasingly, he ran his hands down Athelstan’s sides, but the monk pulled away.

“Don’t...” he warned Enjolras. “This isn’t a game.”

“You keep telling me it _is_ a game,” he pointed out.

Athelstan dropped his sword on the brick ground. The noise of metal connecting hard to the surface resounded in the resonant nave. Enjolras wanted revenge and took to the lessons with deadly focus. 

“Look... There is no doubt that you’ve advanced far in a short matter of time. This comes effortlessly to you. But with that, you can easily become over confident and underestimate your opponent...”

“I know! You’ve told me a hundred times, Athelstan.”

“Yes! And I’ll gladly tell you a hundred times more!”

“You have to let me out on my own at some point, you know?” Enjolras said. “There will come a day when I’ll have to fight against someone for real... for life or death.”

“Fuck...” Athelstan stepped toward Enjolras who had the monk back in his arms.

“Damn it,” he muttered and hugged him close. “I can’t lose you. Not after this. I fucking _need_ you.”

Enjolras tightened his hug. He didn't want to lose Athelstan either and yes, he needed him just as much.

The sexual teasing they had begun with one another was pleasant, highly welcome, and so far from the way Montparnasse had treated him. Athelstan was affectionate, sweet, and had given him a home when he didn't have to. Under the circumstances, he should have just offed Enjolras because he was a threat, but he hadn’t. Instead they’d become so close that by now, Enjolras felt they were soul mates.

Enjolras had never known anyone he could trust with his life until he met Athelstan. None of his friends had made him feel this safe or liked. It was another time, another world, and it was frightening how fast that alienation had happened. His old life was a thing of the past, and he was less sure he needed to see those people again. They would be gone before he knew it and he would literally only have Athelstan left as a constant in his life. If he was to lose Athelstan he would go crazy with loneliness, so how Athelstan had stayed sane all these centuries was beyond him.

He just had this task to fulfil, and then... and then... he would have peace in mind.

. ~ɤ~ .

“Enjolras?”

It was the middle of the night and Enjolras had gone to bed early. The subtle mention of his name so close to his ear forced his sluggish mind to wake up. Instinctively, Enjolras reached out for his sword.

“ _Easy._ It’s only me,” Athelstan said.

Looking to his side, he saw Athelstan squatting on the floor next to the bed. “Jesus... you gave me a shock...” Enjolras said, his heart was hammering in his chest. “What's going on?” he asked when his eyes had adjusted to the darkness.

Taking his hand, Athelstan said, “I have bad news. Montparnasse has escaped tonight. Someone from a fraction of your original group managed to grab him in the chaos that ensued, when he was to be transported to a prison closer to court. It is all over the news.”

“How the fuck could that even happen?” Enjolras said incredulous. 

Athelstan’s expression was grave and concerned, but he didn't have to say anything. However, now that Enjolras' brain was finally functioning optimally, he thought about the consequences of Montparnasse being out there again. The only person Enjolras could think of who would have any interest in helping the terrorist escape would be Claquesous; a sketchy character from the other fraction that Enjolras would love to take down as well. Only he had to remember that they were no murderers. Killing Montparnasse was committing murder, yea, but it was different and the wanker tried to kill Enjolras so the fanatic had it coming. More than ever did he have to stop Montparnasse from spreading more chaos to the world.

“Are you sure you still want to do this?” the monk asked as he grabbed Enjolras’ other hand as well.

He was more than sure. He was willing to risk leaving Lindisfarne to get his revenge for it. Enjolras nodded. “Yes, I am certain. It’s actually even better because I know where he’s hiding.”

“Oh?” Athelstan asked.

“One time we had a... let’s call it a tournament. It was held in one of the garages where we used to hold the fights. In the basement of this particular garage, Montparnasse had this... _panic_ room installed. I’m positive Montparnasse went there to lay low for a while. And I remember the address.”

Athelstan sighed by the sheer enormity of obstacles they were facing to get to Montparnasse. “Jesus Christ... And how do you see us get into that panic room?”

Enjolras let the possibilities roll through his mind. “Maybe not literally get inside the room. But for starters, we’ll observe the garage, of course. It’s only natural that Montparnasse is bound to step out eventually, right? He can’t stay there forever because then he can’t accomplish anything. He needs to come up with a plan at some point and execute it fast to not lose his momentum.”

“All right. I suppose it can be that simple,” Athelstan nodded, still looking apprehensive.

“Nobody can get inside the panic room. Only out. So I honestly think it’s our only option.”

“Fine. We’ll leave for London in a few days, giving him time to feel safe.”

“Okay. Thank you, Athelstan,” Enjolras said, and smiled when the monk leaned in and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

“When this is over, I’ll chain you to the iron rings on the wall across the organ, so I can see you all the time,” Athelstan threatened.

“I love you, too,” Enjolras smirked and kissed him back enthusiastically.

. ~ɤ~ .

Three days later, they took indeed the train to London. Both of them had their swords with them camouflaged in ski bags. Yes, it did look weird considering the time of year, but better than getting nosy questions to what was inside a real sword case. Other than that, they had little to no strategy what so ever since they couldn’t know what to expect, or if they found Montparnasse at all. Luckily, they had all the time in the world. Montparnasse did not.

Around eight PM, they were on the district tube line headed for Dagenham East, which was close enough to their destination that they could walk the rest of the way. The house Enjolras had visited back then was in a street that consisted of mostly abandoned houses built after WW2. Only one house on the street had the lights cut on in one window on the first floor. 

Enjolras pointed to the house. “That’s the address,” he whispered. “We’ll have to move slowly, so we won’t be caught.”

“Are there cameras?” Athelstan asked.

“Yes.” At least they had thought of dressing in black trousers and long-sleeved tops, so they’d have to keep their flash light to a minimum to stay incognito. They moved until they could hide in the wild garden of the abandoned house across from Claquesous’ home.

“Do they have heat cameras, too?” Athelstan asked worriedly.

Enjolras smiled at him and shook his head. “No. At least I don’t think so.”

When nothing happened the next few minutes, the pair could safely assume that nobody had seen them coming. Quietly, they unpacked their swords and settled to watch, prepared to be there for as long as it took. Even days if they had to.

“So Claquesous owns that house?” Athelstan whispered after an hour of them having barely spoken a word.

“Yes – or Montparnasse? I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the actual owner. But Claquesous is this clammy guy leading the other fraction. He turned up a few times on our fight nights, and kicked the crap out of those who confronted his dares. Some people ended up in the ER. Montparnasse thought he was the shit, but Claquesous was just a browbeat wanting an excuse to really hurt people.”

“Weren’t all of you bullies? Looking for an excuse to lash out?”

“Some, for sure. I wasn’t. I even enjoyed the beating on some level. My repetitive dull life of studying became energised from showing off the bruises afterwards. But then I ended up a casualty, anyway, remember?” Enjolras said. “In the beginning, I’m sure none was supposed to get deliberately hurt. All of that changed drastically before I knew what was going on... or else I’ve completely misunderstood everything. I get it that the political outlet came naturally the more people backed up around the _club_ , but I...”

“There’s movement,” Athelstan interrupted.

Enjolras perked up and looked intensely at the house across the street through non-reflective binoculars. A couple of dark clad men left the house and split up as they hurried away.

“Wasn’t him,” Enjolras quickly said. “Montparnasse is smaller.”

Sighing, Athelstan put his arm around Enjolras as they huddled closer. “Are you nervous?”

“Fuck yes,” Enjolras admitted, checking for the umpteenth time that his sword was right by his side.

“Good. You need the adrenaline.”

About fifteen minutes later, the door opened again and they heard two men talk by the door.

“We will be back soon,” one of them said.

“All right,” the response came from the other.

Enjolras grabbed Athelstan’s hand and nodded his head forward, mouthing, _It’s him in the door with Claquesous._

Athelstan looked keenly, and he recognised Montparnasse’s features from the news. 

Something unexpected happened simultaneously.

“What the hell...?” Montparnasse said and joined the other man on the stone step. His eyes darted everywhere as if he was looking for something... or someone.

“What is it?”

“Someone is here...”

Claquesous looked around, “You sure?”

“Uh, yes. Why don’t you go along? I’ll deal with this.”

“With what?”

“Piss off, Claquesous,” Montparnasse hissed, as his dark eyes continued to scan the area keenly.

“Whatever, mate,” Claquesous said sourly, thrown by the sudden hostility, but left without further discussion.

Behind the fence, Athelstan and Enjolras both sat frozen.

“It wasn’t just me, right?” Enjolras asked as quietly as possible.

“No...” Athelstan replied with dread, “He’s one of us.”

. ~ɤ~ .

“All right. Come out who ever the fuck you are!” Montparnasse challenged after briefly ducking back inside the house to fetch his weapon.

“This is it,” Athelstan said. They got up and stepped into the street, lit vaguely by the moon light.

“I’m Montparnasse of Minette,” he declared and took a defensive stand with slightly bouncing knees.

“I’m Athelstan of Lindisfarne,” Athelstan said.

“I’m Enjolras of Lindisfarne,” Enjolras improvised, hoping the nerves didn’t show in his voice.

Montparnasse stopped his bouncing and looked closer. “No fucking way... Angel?” he asked with slight disbelief, but then he took a step back. “What a pleasant surprise, but not two against one. You know the rules.”

“ _I’ll _be fighting you,” Enjolras said and stepped closer.__

__Montparnasse pointed at him with his sword. “If you’ve just become immortal, I’m gonna wipe you out, and then I’m gonna take your little friend there afterwards.”_ _

__Enjolras nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off Montparnasse's body language. “Just tell me one thing: Why did you kill me?”_ _

__“Maybe I just felt like destroying something beautiful... and now I can do it all over again,” Montparnasse grinned cockily. “Gotta tell ya, my little Twink. You being an immortal, I did not see that one coming. A mediocre lay, but I’ve had so many of those. I’ll finish you soon enough. There are bigger fish out there I’d rather spend more time tracking down.”_ _

__Hearing all of that only made Enjolras grit his teeth, but he knew better than to let himself be provoked. “How old are you really?” he asked, as he stepped into position._ _

__“Give or take a decade, I'm two-hundred and twenty. How old is you little friend over there?” Montparnasse flicked his head towards Athelstan._ _

__“Give or take a _century_ , his little friend is 1,200 hundred years old,” Athelstan replied, as he rested against his sword._ _

__That information startled Montparnasse enough to give Enjolras the advantage to attack him fast and deliberate. Montparnasse moved his attention back to the fight, and quickly realised he had to concentrate because his opponent wasn’t fighting to survive but to kill._ _

__Clearly, Montparnasse had a superior fighting experience over Enjolras. Judging from his strength and much stamina, the former leader must have killed many immortals in his time. Enjolras did his best to stay on his toes, and yet he was the one who had to parry most of the time. Montparnasse gained in on him, attacking ruthlessly and draining Enjolras of energy. He didn’t even seem tired yet._ _

__“Aah!” Enjolras cried out stunned, when he received a deep cut to his left bicep. Ruby red, his blood began to drip to the ground. The wound hurt like hell, but it wasn’t going to keep him from fighting, though. Being right-handed, he could still thrust his weapon. If he was going to survive this, there was no other alternative but to man up, and keep going._ _

__Suddenly, a gunshot blasted through the air, and Enjolras sank to the ground, shot in the chest. A series of pained moans escaped him as he tried to stop the bleeding pressing his hand to his chest. Even Montparnasse was dumbfounded about the sudden interference in the middle of the Battle._ _

__Lowering his gun, Claquesous set into motion to get closer to the fight scene, completely overlooking Athelstan standing in the shadow._ _

__“Fuck you, Monty. I knew I should have stay... oooh...” A soft gasp escaped Claquesous mid rant, as he ran into Athelstan’s sword, getting the razor sharp blade embedded through his heart._ _

__Snarling, the monk pulled out his weapon and twirled to estimate Montparnasse's whereabouts. The antagonist hadn’t been wasting his time, now that Enjolras lay defenceless and immobile on the ground. Montparnasse lifted his sword high, aiming to cut off the young immortal’s head. Immediately, Athelstan swung his sword and cut off Montparnasse’s hands mid swing._ _

__The terrorist’s sword and chopped off limbs fell to the ground around him._ _

__Shocked Montparnasse stared at the blunt ends of wrists that used to have his hands attached. “Huh!! Huh!!” he gasped, when his brain caught up to what his eyes were was looking at. His noises grew into screams of horror that were ripped from his throat nonstop._ _

__A few metres away, Claquesous lay gurgling in his death throe, but the man would never be a threat to anybody anymore. The street was deserted. No lights came on in the other houses indicating potential witnesses to the gun shot and other noises disturbing the night. Still, a police siren could break the stillness any second, and their opportunity would be wasted._ _

__Athelstan crouched next to Enjolras and worriedly touched his shoulder._ _

__“Enjolras...? Darling? How are you?” he murmured into his ear._ _

__“Hurts,” Enjolras winced, “but not as much as when he got me.”_ _

__“That’s good. Means you’re already healing. Can you sit up? You have to finish him... and it’ll wake up the whole neighbourhood, so we don't have much time.”_ _

__“Ohhhh,” Enjolras cried in pain, but he knew he had to do it. He also knew the Quickening he’d receive from Montparnasse’s conquests would be painful. “I’ll try. Where is my sword?”_ _

__“It’s right here,” Athelstan said, reached for it, and put it in his hands. Carefully, Enjolras was supported to stand up and now stood in front of Montparnasse who was in shock. The man was done defending himself and he would never take another head._ _

__“Enjolras...” Athelstan urged him. In the distant they heard a siren from a police vehicle._ _

__Carefully, Enjolras lifted his sword, and looking Montparnasse in the eye, he swung it and cut off his head in one clean motion. Squeezing his own eyes shut for a few moments to contain the pain the deed had caused, Enjolras gasped. When he looked up, he searched for Athelstan who stepped away to avoid touching him._ _

__“Oh, god. Fuck... I just...” Enjolras was hit with nausea from the heavy iron tang of Montparnasse’s blood, but also from the fact that he had just killed a person._ _

__“You can’t freak out now, Enjolras. Save it for later. _Please!_.”_ _

__“Okay... all right... What now?” Enjolras asked shaking all over, even though he knew what Athelstan had told him was going to happen when one took a head._ _

__“Hurry! Get up, damn it!” Athelstan ordered him._ _

__Enjolras managed to get up and his excruciating pain was moments later replaced by something else, as the Quickening drifted out of Montparnasse’s corpse and his power gathered around him._ _

__“Drop the sword,” Athelstan urged him, but the push and pull of the Quickening took over until Enjolras dropped the sword automatically. The accompanying noise was deafening, the pressure unbearable making the window panes explode from the houses around them._ _

__The whole séance felt like aeons, but lasted barely a minute._ _

__Enjolras was suspended in the air, his toes barely touching the ground. He felt invigorated as well as taking his last breath._ _

__Suddenly, it was over and he dropped down to the ground like a rag doll, taking gulps of air to control his racing heartbeat._ _

__Athelstan was by his side again. “Can you walk?”_ _

__“I think so,” Enjolras said hoarsely. He’d had no idea he’d been screaming._ _

__“Let’s go. The police can be here any second.”_ _

__“What about Claquesous?”_ _

__“He’ll probably bleed to death... unless the police get him an ambulance in time.”_ _

__"Are we taking Montparnasse’s sword?" Enjolras asked._ _

__"No. I don’t want it."_ _

__"But what if someone finds it?"_ _

__"I don’t care, Enjolras! Let's get the fuck out of here" Athelstan almost shouted._ _

__Enjolras debated a couple of moments longer before he decided to bring it along, putting it in the ski bag with his own._ _

__“Do you think they’ll suspect that he did it?” Enjolras asked, as soon as they’d collected all their stuff and finally huddled away from the scene._ _

__“What? That he killed Montparnasse?”_ _

__“Yeah.”_ _

__“Now that you’ve removed the sword, forensics will only find Claquesous' gun. And since none of them have a gunshot wound that's not gonna help them figure out who killed them or why. So, unless those houses inhabit witnesses willing to shed some light about what really happened...” Athelstan smiled a little. “Personally, I’ve never seen a testimony like that in the newspapers. They usually end up in sci-fi magazines.”_ _

__“Like the X-Files?”_ _

__“Yeah, just like the X-Files.”_ _

__“That’s pretty cool,” Enjolras rambled on, running._ _

__“You’re pretty cool,” Athelstan chuckled._ _

__“I love you,” Enjolras said when they stopped a few streets over._ _

__“Wow...” Athelstan said and smiled._ _

__Enjolras looked at his sweet face, his gorgeous pale eyes and dark hair. Reaching out, he smoothed Athelstan's hair down and repeated. “I love you. There.”_ _

__“I think I love you, too,” Athelstan said and smiled, looking like a boy. Winding his arms around Enjolras’ waist, he asked, “How are you?”_ _

__“Much better. The bleeding has probably stopped now,” Enjolras replied and played with Athelstan’s hair._ _

__“With Montparnasse’s Quickening, you’re much stronger and will heal faster.”_ _

__“Well, he doesn’t need it anymore,” Enjolras said and cocked his head, completely besotted by his little monk._ _

__The eye fucking continued a little longer before Enjolras looked away. “Let’s go home. I’ve got a bullet to remove.”_ _

__“Yeah, we’d better.”_ _

__The couple walked briskly away._ _

__When the police cars arrived at the crime scene, the two immortals were already changed into street clothes, looking like two regular blokes waiting for the tube to take them to Liverpool Street Station and back home._ _

__

____

. ~ɤ~ .

The mystery of who executed Montparnasse and Claquesous was never solved.

Their case was eventually put in the file of unexplained 'Deaths by Beheading' that the Scotland Yard had collected since it was established in 1829.

. ~ɤ~ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.


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